The Bear

TWENTY

The Highwayman and Dame Gwydre entered Pryd Town late the next morning, without fanfare, without much recognition. Bransen even took care to disguise his revealing clothing for the sake of Dame Gwydre, nervously walking at his side.

He noted that Gwydre, too, had retreated to a disguise (though, of course, none in these parts knew her at all, anyway), putting up the hood of her traveling cloak so far forward that it covered not only her hair, but much of her profile, as well.

How could she not be nervous? Bransen asked himself as they crossed the northern fields, through an endless sea of tents.

"How many?" Gwydre asked quietly from under the hood. "Pryd is more powerful than I had imagined."

"Most are from Delaval," Bransen explained. "I learned that Yeslnik granted Bannagran a sizable force so that he could rid the world of Laird Ethelbert."

"So many," Gwydre said, her voice full of trepidation.

Bransen took her hand and she squeezed his tightly.

"If every man and woman of Vanguard took up arms, I could not hope to lead them to victory against such a force as this," Gwydre said. "So many! I could not imagine…"

"Yeslnik can muster several times this force," Bransen heard himself reply, and when Gwydre squeezed his hand tighter, he felt foolish, indeed, for divulging that disturbing truth.

"We cannot win," Gwydre whispered.

"We have to win," Bransen whispered back. He stopped walking and looked at Gwydre, drawing her gaze to his own. Silently, they stared and nodded, "tying iron to their bones" as the old saying went.

"Surely this force could sweep Laird Ethelbert away," Gwydre remarked when they began walking again.

"The city is well defended, and by desperate men with their backs to the sea. Bannagran would defeat him, but it would not be without great cost to this army, large as it is. Of course, if we have our way, Bannagran will never again march to the Mirianic."

"Why did they turn? Why are they are back here in central Honce?"

"Recalled because of the powrie fight, so revealed Brother Giavno. Resupplying and preparing to march again, but to the west and the river, not east."

"You believe this to be a good thing for our cause? The coming of the powries, I mean."

Bransen had no answer for her, but he doubted that Bannagran was thrilled at being pulled back from a campaign. They would know soon enough, he reminded himself as they crossed onto the main road of the town proper, Castle Pryd looming before them.

"Here, but I thought you had run off from us, Highwayman," said one of the four sentries at the front gate, which was open but imposing nonetheless. "Not that many wanted you along for the march."

"Hardly that," Bransen lied. "There were more important matters to attend."

"So said Laird Bannagran?"

"There was no time to tell him," said Bransen. "I return now with important information. Announce me, I beg, and send a courier to Master Reandu."

The man looked at him suspiciously for a few heartbeats, but then nodded to his companions and disappeared inside. Just a few moments later, Bransen found himself entering the audience hall of the Laird of Pryd yet again.

Bannagran smirked and shook his head at the sight of him. "You are like the wart I keep cutting from my toe," he said.

"Forgive my absence," Bransen said.

"Forgive? Do you think I was angry at hearing that you had fled the lands once more?" He snorted derisively. "I thought that I could put away my knife and that my toe would know relief, and this time, perchance, forevermore."

Bransen caught Gwydre's concerned look beside him and so he tossed her a reassuring wink.

"And who is this that you have brought? One of the Duwornay women?"

Gwydre's expression remained concerned, but Bransen motioned to her, and with his reassuring nod, she pulled back her hood.

Bransen turned to Bannagran, sitting halfway across the room, to gauge his reaction, and, indeed, the man started, leaning back with his eyes wide, then coming forward, certainly interested.

"Callen Duwornay?" he asked and started to rise.

"A forward scout," Bransen corrected, "come to accept Laird Bannagran's agreement and word that he will honor a flag of parlay."

"Parlay? What are you babbling about, Stork?"

Bransen took the insult in stride. "I have returned ahead of the most important meeting Laird Bannagran might ever know."

"Ethelbert again?"

"Nay," Bransen replied, and he painted a wry smile on his face to heighten the laird's intrigue.

"Father Artolivan, then," Bannagran reasoned, and if he was at all impressed with that possibility, he didn't show it. "I would have thought him too old-"

"Father Artolivan is dead," Dame Gwydre interrupted.

That silenced the man. He came forward a step, looking Gwydre up and down, clear intrigue on his dark face.

"Will you offer your word of honor?" Bransen asked.

Bannagran eyed him suspiciously but gave a slight nod.

"Dismiss your guards," Bransen bade him. "All of them."

Bannagran stared at him hard for a moment but then motioned for the sentries to leave the room. Bransen followed them to the heavy oaken door and shut it behind them.

"Artolivan is dead, you say?" Bannagran asked the woman.

"Father Premujon of Vanguard now leads the Order of Blessed Abelle. It was he who blessed the army, my army, when we swept Laird Panlamaris from the field before St. Mere Abelle."

Bannagran's eyes widened, indeed!

"Laird Bannagran, I present to you Dame Gwydre of Vanguard," said Bransen, walking up beside his companion.

"You come here, to the court of your sworn enemy, unarmed?" Bannagran asked.

"I have the most dangerous weapon in the world beside me," Gwydre assured him. "And I have the word of an honorable man, do I not?"

"That remains to be seen, perhaps," said Bannagran. "But what I am not is a foolish man. You come to me championing the cause of Laird Ethelbert, whose murderers tried to assassinate the couriers you sent to him. Is that your meaning of 'honorable'?"

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the conversation, followed by the voice of Master Reandu. "Laird Bannagran! I would speak with you and Bransen."

Bransen looked to Bannagran for permission, and the laird just laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and waved his hand toward the door. "I will enjoy his expression when you tell him his beloved Father Artolivan is dead," he said to Gwydre, but before he could begin to revel in his cleverness, Dame Gwydre shot back, in all seriousness, "No, you won't."

Bransen opened the door and Reandu, Cormack, and Milkeila rushed in, and before they could even begin to properly greet Bransen, Cormack identified Dame Gwydre and all three stared in silent confusion.

Bransen closed the door behind them.

"Ah, yes, and back to our discussion of Laird Ethelbert," Bannagran started again. "Ask your emissaries, lady. Ethelbert's assassins tried to kill them, and these same assassins murdered King Delaval, who was ever a friend of Pryd. And you come here in the hopes that you would convince me to fight for his cause?"

"No," said Gwydre. Bannagran's volume had increased by the word, and he had moved much closer to Gwydre, an obvious attempt to make her feel smaller. But she didn't back away an inch. "For Honce!" she said right in his face. "I come here in the hopes of convincing you to fight for what is right."

"And for Bannagran," Bransen added, but no one paid him any heed, all eyes locked on Gwydre and Bannagran, these two most impressive and powerful figures, standing barely a hand's width apart and staring at each other with such intensity that if someone had dropped kindling between them and it had spontaneously ignited, not a person in the room would have been surprised.

"For Honce," Gwydre said again. "For the people of Honce. For all of those who have been forgotten in the march to personal glory."

"For the peasants?" Bannagran asked dismissively, and Gwydre fiercely scowled.

"What choice was offered to the people of Honce, peasant and noble alike, in the decision of these two lairds, Delaval and Ethelbert?" Gwydre asked.

"The choice of which."

"Merely that?"

"That is more than they deserve."

"You do not believe that."

"You do not know me," Bannagran reminded her, but Gwydre's ensuing smile took a large measure of the certainty from his rigid expression.

"By what right?" she asked. "Ethelbert and Delaval and now this wretched Yeslnik after him claim the throne of all the land simply because they presume themselves the strongest. It is not by edict, not by the request of the lairds, and not for the good of the holdings. Nay, it is the temptation of power and nothing more. To be the king is what they, all three, demand and desire. To expand their personal powers and nothing more, and for their folly tens of thousands have been pecked by the carrion birds and the crops fail and the young and old sit hungry and cold. Tyrants, all three."

"And Gwydre is different?"

That evoked a hard and angry stare from the woman, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Bannagran's dark eyes flashed as well in response. A smile creased his face as he took a deep breath-took a deep breath because Gwydre had obviously just taken his breath away.

"By Abelle," Bransen heard Reandu whisper.

"You will find that I am someone who does not like to be mocked, Laird Bannagran," Dame Gwydre said in a low and even voice. "I came here in good faith to appeal to a man of character."

"You came here hoping that I would bow before you and lend you my thousands so that you could steal victory from the weary and warring lairds and thus claim Honce as your own," Bannagran replied. "Do not pretty it with pretty words, lady. The blood smells the same."

"And yet, the church supports my claim."

"If you believe that will impress me, then perhaps you should scold your scouts who told you of my affinity for the church, Abellican or Samhaist. I'll not weep for dead Father Artolivan, I assure you." He looked at Reandu as he finished, and the man blanched as Bannagran's words truly registered.

"Then you are not as wise as Bransen, who championed your character to me, believes," said Gwydre. "For Artolivan was a wise and temperate man, blessed with generosity and wisdom in amounts far greater than those of this foolish young king you slavishly follow."

The word "slavishly" had proud Bannagran standing up straighter, squaring his shoulders and narrowing his eyes.

"O wondrous Laird Bannagran," Gwydre taunted. "The great Bear of Honce, sniffing the heels of foppish King Yeslnik."

"Beware your words, lady," Bannagran said quietly.

"How many victories will you have to win on the field, Bear of Honce, to repair the legacy of any man who would whimper at the whip of sniveling Yeslnik?"

"A victory that strikes dead the Dame of Vanguard should suffice."

The four onlookers shared alarmed expressions, but Gwydre didn't blink.

"You disappoint me," she said evenly, and of all the words launched that day, those seemed to strike Bannagran the hardest. Mostly it was her tone, Bransen and the other onlookers knew, for it was full of honest remorse.

Bannagran didn't reply, didn't blink, and quickly erased his wince.

"Am I permitted to remain in Pryd Town this night?" Gwydre asked. "Or should I be away at once?"

"I would be within my rights to take you prisoner."

"Laird!" Reandu gasped, and Bransen took a step forward, more than ready to intervene, with lethal force if necessary.

But Gwydre disarmed them both by lifting her hand to the side to ward them away. "There is more to the character of Bannagran than Bannagran is brave enough to admit," she said.

Bannagran laughed at her. "You may stay in the castle itself, of course," he said. "I would have it no other way, Lady of Vanguard. I'll honor your parlay." He turned to Bransen. "But that one will be the guest of Master Reandu at Chapel Pryd. I need no assassins in my midst."

"I'll not leave Dame Gwydre," said Bransen.

"Yes, you will," Gwydre corrected, and when Bransen stared at her hard, she responded in kind and bid him to be gone.

"I will have an attendant show you to your room, lady," said Bannagran. "You will be gone with the sunrise."

"Gladly away," she agreed. Below the side kitchen area of Castle Pryd, in smoke-filled rooms of mud and stone, where the rats ruled and the cockroaches served as commoners, the few miserable human intruders, guards and prisoners alike, lost all sense of time and humanity.

Beaten and starved, Wahloon dangled by his wrists, the iron collars digging painfully into the base of his hands.

Painful, but only when the disciplined warrior allowed it to be. Wahloon had trained under Affwin Wi in the ways of Hou-lei, the ways of the warriors of Behr. Like the training of their descendants, the Jhesta Tu, the discipline of the Hou-lei was all encompassing. It strove for harmony between mind and body within a specific philosophical framework that balanced the relationship in the realms of the physical and tactical by disregarding the emotional-in the Hou-lei's case, the elimination of conscience, for conscience was viewed as weakness in a warrior. That was the distinguishing feature between Jhesta Tu and Hou-lei, for a Hou-lei warrior was an instrument of war. Nothing more and nothing less. A perfect, disciplined weapon.

Mind and body joined. Mind over body when necessary.

Wahloon did not feel the pain, not the whip gashes in his back, not the bruises on his face, not the cuts along his hands and wrists, not the strain of hanging suspended from the floor. He allowed his shoulder muscles to stretch and twist appropriately so that they did not resist the weight.

He tried several times to writhe and squirm his wrists out of the bracerlike shackles, but to no avail. He had no footing, no balance with which to manipulate the items. He needed something to stand on.

Torchlight stung his eyes and alerted him of movement. One of Bannagran's troglodytes entered the chamber, a hunched and twisted man, bearded and filthy, with two twisted yellow and green teeth and only one good eye. He was a diminutive fellow, hunched and round, his broken form accentuated by a sleeveless woolen sack he wore from neck to knees. He carried a plate of food, rotten and maggot-ridden. Even that meager and wretched meal wasn't for Wahloon, though, but for the gaoler, who grinned evilly as he dipped his greasy fingers into it and shoveled a writhing mass into his mouth.

"Oh, but are ye hungry, smelly one?" he asked.

Wahloon's response came in the form of a kick, weak and pathetic, but effective enough to clip the plate and upend its contents into the gaoler's face.

Wahloon groaned and let his legs fall limp, seeming weak from agony and hunger.

The gaoler howled in rage and stepped forward to pummel the helpless man, who was not so helpless after all.

Up snapped Wahloon's legs, around the troglodyte's neck. The warrior locked his ankles together. Suddenly strong, Wahloon twisted his hips over one way, then back the other and the flailing gaoler turned with him, lurching side to side. The troglodyte tried to yell out, but it came forth as a gurgle. He slapped and pinched at the warrior's legs, but Wahloon felt no pain. He tried to bite at the legs, but Wahloon had his shin under the man's chin and would not allow him to squirm free at all.

Wahloon flipped right over, crossing the chains, so that he was facing the wall, and bent hard at the waist, pulling the gaoler forward and down beneath him. To the troglodyte's surprise, the prisoner then released him, planted his feet on the back of the hunched man's shoulders, and snapped his lower body forward, ramming the gaoler into the stone wall.

The gaoler caught himself enough to avoid splitting his bald head wide open, though he was bleeding badly. As Wahloon shoved away from him, he tried to scurry to the side, but before he had gone a stride, in came the warrior's bare foot, knifing hard against his throat and slamming him again against the wall. Now he was gurgling and lurching, and Wahloon swung level before him and began pumping his legs, knees rising to smash the troglodyte in the face repeatedly.

He went down to his knees, and Wahloon let himself twist back the other way. He used the momentum of that swing to bring his legs up and over, inverting in a hanging roll and straightening with all his strength and speed as he came around so that he double-stomped the kneeling gaoler's shoulder and head, throwing the man facedown to the floor.

He groaned and tried to rise once, but just once, before he fell flat and hard and lay still, making little mewling and gasping noises.

Wahloon flipped back the other way and stood atop him, finally releasing the pressure from his weary shoulders. He stomped hard on the back of the man's head a couple of times to ensure that he wouldn't roll away, and then he used his newfound leverage to begin his work on the shackles-not a difficult task for one who had trained in the ways of Hou-lei.

He thought for a moment of donning the gaoler's bug-ridden wool smock but grimaced in disgust and shook his head. Besides, he understood the pathetic martial prowess of the sentries in the area. If they recognized him, they would quake in terror, and that would only make killing them more pleasurable. "The days are dark," Cormack lamented back at Chapel Pryd.

"There is no sunrise," Reandu agreed.

"Come with us, brother," said Cormack. "To St. Mere Abelle. We will follow the will of Blessed Abelle, protected by high and thick walls King Yeslnik cannot breach."

"The army of Vanguard will arrive presently, if they have not already, and you would surrender to your despair?" Bransen said from across the room, where he sat on the sill of an open window that faced Castle Pryd.

"Ethelbert will not come forth," said Cormack. "Indeed, after his assassins assailed me and Milkeila outside of Pryd, I am not sure that I want him to leave his city! And you witnessed the response of Bannagran."

"I thought that the meeting went better than I could have hoped."

All three in the room turned curious stares Bransen's way.

"Dame Gwydre was not taken prisoner," Bransen explained. "Nor was she turned away. Nor did she back down from Bannagran's snarl-indeed, her bark was louder than his own, and made him take notice."

"Did you expect that Laird Bannagran would have imprisoned her?" Milkeila asked.

"It was a possibility."

"And still you brought her here?" Cormack asked and scolded.

"I don't deny the desperation of our situation. I know about Ethelbert, though I wonder if he was aware that the assassins hunted you. I do not believe he has as tight a leash on Affwin Wi as he believes."

"We're talking about Bannagran and Dame Gwydre and your decision to bring her from the safety of St. Mere Abelle," said Cormack.

"She brought herself out from behind the walls, first to sweep aside Laird Panlamaris and his catapults and then to march east to meet with the Vanguard flotilla. I merely persuaded her to come to Pryd Town to meet this general whose aid she so coveted. And, as I said, I think it went quite well… better than I had hoped."

"He refused her," Cormack reminded.

"And she is in his castle, as his guest," said Bransen. "Did you not see it?"

"See it?"

"Dame Gwydre intrigued him," Master Reandu explained. "Her wit, her courage, her presence." He nodded at Bransen. "Yes, her words cut the man deeply, else he would have sent her away, at best."

"Intrigued him," Bransen repeated, returning Reandu's nod. "At the very least, Dame Gwydre's blunt words have given Bannagran pause and made him less comfortable with his role as the foolish Yeslnik's foolish pawn."

"He'll not likely turn traitor," said Cormack.

"Not now, perhaps," said Bransen. "Some seeds take time to grow."

"And in that time, Yeslnik will conquer the world."

"No," Bransen said, smiling serenely. He moved from the window to regard the others, to make sure he had their complete attention. "King Yeslnik will govern only where his armies remain."

"He will push Laird Ethelbert into the sea, surely," Cormack argued.

"And I hope that the man cannot swim," Bransen replied. "I've no doubt that King Yeslnik's armies are beyond our power to battle, but we have a weapon that he does not." He paused to watch the curious trio lean forward with anticipation. "We have the spirit-walking brothers," Bransen explained. "We will know where Yeslnik's armies are and where they are marching. And so let him chase us futilely the length and breadth of Honce. Whenever his armies conquer a holding and then depart, we will walk in behind them and bid the people to hold hope. And if ever his armies leave open a flank or send out lesser forces, we will meet them and crush them. And all the time, St. Mere Abelle will remain undaunted and unconquered, a beacon of hope against King Yeslnik. Time will work against him as his warriors grow ever wearier with their endless marching and as his general Bannagran continues to realize that the man is a fool and continues to mull the words and promises of Dame Gwydre."

"You believe that?" Cormack asked.

"I do," said Bransen. "And more than that, I believe it to be the worst of the possible scenarios. This meeting with Bannagran is not over. I did not carry Dame Gwydre halfway across Honce to so easily let Bannagran avoid facing the truth of his decisions."

Bransen smiled wryly, walked back to the sill, and swung his legs out the window. "In fact, I think I will pay our Laird of Pryd a visit at this very late hour."

"Wait!" Reandu called as Bransen started to slip outside. "What has happened to you?" Reandu asked. "When last we parted…"

Standing on the lawn before the window then, Bransen turned to regard the master. "In the midst of a war, I have found peace," Bransen replied. He left it at that, though many more thoughts streamed through his mind. His voice was strong and he felt strong, though he wouldn't take the chance of removing the soul stone strapped to his forehead; too much was at stake for him to risk the return of the Stork. That strength of body reflected his inner calm, he knew, his newfound purpose and understanding.

It was worth it. He believed that now. With a nod to his friends, he started off across the courtyard, not to the front gate, but to the side wall that separated the grounds of Chapel Pryd from those of Castle Pryd.

Bransen considered the structure before him as he silently came over the wall. Castle Pryd was not large, really just a solid and thick central keep with a trio of smaller one-storey wings about it. Bransen knew the building fairly well, particularly the keep itself. He noted a light burning in a narrow window on the third and top floor and recognized that as the room once belonging to Laird Prydae and to Laird Pryd before him. Bannagran would have taken it as his own, Bransen surmised, and so he moved quiet as a whisper across the courtyard to the corner where the two nearest wings met at the base of the keep. There, he fell into the malachite magic and began his spiderlike climb, first to the roof of one of the low wings, then, when he was confident that no sentries were looking his way, up the tower itself.

He picked his way along the cracks in the stone, his strong grip easily finding handholds sufficient to support his nearly weightless body. He went beside a window about halfway up and glanced in, noting the stairway where he had once, long ago, pursued Laird Prydae, where Master Bathelais had tried to lash at him with gemstone lightning, but had been stopped by the courage of Reandu.

It seemed like a lifetime ago to the young man who had known such an adventurous and interesting year.

"A year," Bransen mouthed silently. "Just a year." How much had changed!

His nostalgia flew away then as he noted a figure climbing the stairway. He quickly moved back from the window so that he would not be noticed, a dark silhouette against a lighter sky, for the man carried no torch.

He carried no torch…

Why would that be? Bransen tried to find a logical explanation for that. The stairs were steep, dark, and treacherous. Why would anyone climb them on a dark night without a source of light?

Bransen held his breath, hearing footsteps, very light, made by no boot. He dared move his head back to get an angled look at the window and just noted the man's passage, seeing no more than the back of his pant leg.

Silken and black.

Bransen had to remind himself to breathe. He thought of going right into the window behind the Hou-lei, but he scaled the side instead, rushing up hand over hand. All notion of stealth fled in his rush, and before he had gone five feet he heard shouting from the courtyard below. He ignored it and pressed on until he was staring into Bannagran's room on the keep's top floor.

Bannagran slumped in a wide chair before the hearth, an open and nearly empty bottle in his hand. He might have been asleep, and certainly he was near to dozing. Behind him, directly across the room from Bransen, the door eased open and the black-clothed assassin slipped in. The Hou-lei warrior paused right there, for beside the door sat a rack of knives.

He took one and eased his way toward the clueless Laird of Pryd.

Bransen could hardly register the scene unfolding before him. His mind darted in a hundred different directions all at once. Would the death of Bannagran benefit Dame Gwydre and Honce? Was this acceptable justice for the man who had murdered his father? Should he allow it? Could he stop it?

By the time he blinked the myriad questions aside, Bransen figured that he had been stupefied for too long, that the choice had been taken from him. His hesitation had decided his course.

Or not.

"Bannagran!" he shouted, flinging himself through the window, a forward roll that brought him back to his feet and in a dead run at the seated Laird of Pryd.

Bannagran's eyes went wide with terror, and he threw his hands up before him as Bransen roared in… and leaped above him, diagonally over his wide chair. Bransen landed before the assassin, who lashed at him with the knife. Instinct alone saved the Highwayman, as he pulled up short and threw his head to the side, leaning away just out of reach.

The assassin reversed his grip smoothly and chopped a backhand. The Highwayman again ducked his head and shoulders back, but this time he snapped his right arm up vertically inside the reach of the knife so that it connected, forearm to forearm, with the assassin. At the same time, Bransen brought his left arm across his chest, then swept it before him as he shoved a backhand with his right, a powerful crossing motion of his arms.

His satisfaction as the knife went flying lasted only as long as it took him to realize, at the painful end of a lifted foot, that the assassin had surrendered the knife willingly in exchange for the clean strike.

Bransen staggered backward, trying to stand straight and keep his defenses up. Tears welled in his eyes as explosions of pain and waves of numbness washed over him from his smashed groin. His opponent saw his vulnerability and came on hard, striking with open palms, kneeing and kicking.

Sheer terror stole the pain from Bransen, and he worked furiously to counter and block, falling fast into a smooth rhythm. Many heartbeats passed before he even realized that he had caught up to his opponent's swift and accurate moves.

The Highwayman could hardly believe that he had suffered no serious or debilitating strikes as the two settled into a more measured and balanced routine. Wahloon was good, very good, and kept the initiative, pressing forward, fingers stabbing. He swung a right hook and kept going around when the punch didn't land. It seemed almost as if he were screwing himself into the ground, for as he spun, he went down low in a crouch.

Instinctively, Bransen hopped, and just in time, as Wahloon's leg swept harmlessly under him. Bransen landed gracefully and in a powerful pivot position, left foot forward. Immediately, he rotated his hips and kicked out with his right, but the assassin, rising fast, had his hands in place to double block, and it was all Bransen could do to stop from having his foot grabbed and caught. Still, as he brought his foot in, he kept his presence of mind enough to reverse his momentum and go forward with his upper body, jabbing left and right with a flurry of strikes.

Wahloon leaned back out of reach, his open hands blocking and slapping at the punching Highwayman, who kept coming forward, for Bransen was determined to press his advantage while he had the assassin backing and somewhat off balance.

Wahloon launched into a backflip, kicking out as he turned horizontal, a surprising strike that clipped Bransen high on one arm and slowed his pursuit. Over went the assassin to land on his feet, and he bounced away into a second somersault, this one sidelong and high and right over another of the cushiony chairs.

Bransen dismissed his surprise, even admiration, at the graceful and balanced retreat, and went in fast pursuit. He lowered his shoulder and barreled into the chair, sending it skidding and tumbling at the assassin, who promptly leaped and somersaulted again, tucking tight in a forward roll that landed him right back in place, the chair now behind him and his opponent rushing in.

Both men struck with fury and amazing speed, hands and feet becoming a blur of motion, slapping and snapping against each other with great force. Sobered by the commotion and the shock, Bannagran circled the combatants. He tried to follow their movements but found himself standing with his mouth agape at the beauty and power and ferociousness of the dance. He heard the slaps more than he actually saw them.

Down went the Highwayman in a spinning descent, his leg stabbing out at the Behr warrior's knee. Wahloon barely turned his leg enough so that the kick didn't shatter that joint. As if he hadn't even been hit, the warrior came forward over Bransen as the Highwayman tried to rise, his hands jabbing down hard like the talons of a hawk, stabbing and grabbing.

Bannagran stumbled to the side, circling back in front of the hearth and hoping to get around to the door. He heard shouting and knew his guards were on their way.

He knew, too, that the Highwayman had just saved his life. Bransen's hands worked in tight, circular patterns above and before him as he stood back up, deflecting the many strikes of Wahloon. The assassin's continuous straightforward angling surprised him, for surely the man could have arced a hook or two around his hands to score a painful hit. But Wahloon remained strangely focused, every strike going for Bransen's forehead.

Every strike or every grab?

That notion hit Bransen hard as he finally came up even, the two resuming their furious exchange. The assassin kept going for his forehead. The assassin was trying to strip away Bransen's bandanna and gemstone!

Wahloon leaped and somersaulted again, twisting about as Bransen turned sidelong to the left and went over the other way, the two crossing paths upside down in midair, both punching out as they did. As soon as he landed, Bransen pivoted around backward, launching a circle kick.

So did Wahloon, the two kicking feet slamming together. Bransen hopped off his right foot and rotated his hips, sending that foot out behind him as he landed on his left, and when Wahloon did likewise, the two hooked their right legs at the ankles. Both tugged and they came together hard, clawing and striking every inch of the way. And again, Wahloon went for Bransen's bandanna.

Bransen let him. The Highwayman fell into himself, into his ki-chi-kree, and mentally separated himself from the soul stone even as Wahloon's grasping hand ripped the bandanna and stone away. Bransen staggered, seeming out of control, and Wahloon struck, a leaping circle kick that would have smashed the side of Bransen's head with enough force to snap his neck.

Except that in the instant it took Wahloon to leap and spin, the Highwayman wasn't there. Bransen had dropped straight down into a crouch, so low that his butt brushed the ground. He could feel his line of life energy twitching-it wanted to break apart-but he held it firm and came up and forward with tremendous power and speed, punching out with a strong right, burying his fist into the descending Wahloon's groin. The assassin jerked out and back and somehow, with great effort and discipline, managed to land standing.

But that was a mistake, for Bransen continued to drive upward, and when he was standing, he threw himself into the air, flipping over and double-kicking out as he came around. He hit Wahloon with both feet, soles crashing in against the man's shoulders and throwing him backward into the side of Bannagran's chair.

Even worse for the dazed assassin, he landed right before Laird Bannagran, who had reached into the hearth and produced a smoking log from the low-burning fire.

Bannagran met the falling assassin with a heavy swing, the log cracking Wahloon's skull, snapping his neck, and stopping cold his momentum. He swung about weirdly, twisting and collapsing to the floor in an awkward heap. And there he lay very still.

Bannagran looked up at Bransen, looked past Bransen to the guards bursting in the door. He held up his hand to keep them at bay as they leveled their spears at the Highwayman's back.

"I suppose you expect my gratitude," Bannagran said to Bransen.

Out of breath, hurting in many places, and trying hard to keep his line of life energy from scattering, Bransen could only shrug before he sank down to one knee.

"Get this fool out of my sight," Bannagran instructed the guards, who lifted their spears and rushed to flank Bransen, left and right. "Not that fool," Bannagran scolded, and he kicked the dead assassin in the side of the head. "This one!"

They rushed over and began dragging Wahloon's body away, and Bannagran tossed the log, its bark red with blood and bits of brain matter, back into the hearth. The laird shook his head as Bransen managed to pull himself back to his feet. He glanced to the side and noted Bransen's bandanna, the gray stone sitting on the floor nearby. Never taking his eyes off the dangerous Highwayman, Bannagran walked over and picked up the stone and cloth.

Bransen reached out for them from across the way, but Bannagran scoffed and held them close.

"He… h… he would have killed you," Bransen reminded, his voice unsteady, Stork-like.

"I've saved a thousand men, and a hundred have saved me," Bannagran replied. "That is the way of war. You betrayed Ethelbert's assassin because it benefitted you; do not pretend any friendship or kinship to me as the cause."

Bransen closed his eyes and tried to regain his steadiness.

"Do you have anything to say before I have my guards drag you away? Or should I just throw you back out the window and be done with you?"

"Did you deserve my efforts here?" Bransen answered with a question of his own. "Is the life of the Laird of Pryd worth fighting for?"

"What idiocy?"

"Is the life of the man who murdered my father worth my time or effort?" Bransen asked. He opened his eyes and glared at Bannagran. "Are you the beast you so stubbornly insist that you are, Bannagran of Pryd?"

"Your father? Garibond Womak?" Bannagran snickered. "Are we back to that, Highwayman?" He snorted with clear derision and walked over to retrieve his great axe, which rested against the side of the hearth. "Too long have I suffered your whimpers. Your father, my friend Prydae-it would seem that we have little to say, then. So come on and be done with it. I will be rid of you at long last, or I will-"

"Be dead," Bransen finished for him. "And that does not strike fear into the heart of Bannagran the brave, does it?"

"We're all dying, fool."

"Aye, but your lack of fear is not because of Bannagran the brave. It took me a long time to understand that about you."

"Back to idiocy, I see," Bannagran said, and he maneuvered his chair back into place, which put it between himself and Bransen.

"You are not afraid of dying because you are a coward," Bransen accused.

"Do tell," the laird replied, amused.

"I know you, Bannagran, because I know myself. You look at me and you stare into a mirror."

Bannagran scoffed even louder.

"Cowards, both," Bransen insisted. "Neither of us has ever found the courage to lead. We are servants because we are afraid."

"I am the Laird of Pryd. I thought you knew that."

"You are the servant of Yeslnik, as you were the servant of Laird Prydae and of Laird Pryd before him. You can lead armies, but you are no leader."

"You babble."

"And I can outfight almost any man in Honce," Bransen went on. "But like Bannagran, when I serve no laird or dame, I serve only myself. The Highwayman of Pryd Town held no responsibility for the folk he claimed to champion. In truth…" He paused, lowered his gaze, and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. When he looked back up, he was somewhat surprised to find a look of intrigue on Bannagran's face. Perhaps it was the liquor, perhaps the rescue, but whatever the reason, Bransen knew that he could not let this slim opportunity pass. "In truth, I cared nothing for the injustices served upon them by your friend, Laird Prydae. How many maidens did he drag to his bedroom? And not one did the Highwayman rescue other than Cadayle, my love. Even when I stole food and money and gave it back to the folk of Pryd, I did so only to anger Laird Pryd."

"I could have you executed for this admission."

"You could have taken my head several times, Laird Bannagran, with or without cause, and always with the blessing of King Yeslnik. In fact, it is exactly your hesitance that has led me to this place and this time, with Dame Gwydre beside me."

"On a fool's errand."

Bransen shook his head. "You are better than this role you have played, like the palace dog doing tricks for the spoiled child that is Yeslnik."

"We are back to this," Bannagran interrupted. "I already gave my answer to the woman who holds your leash. Your desperation shines darkly on your cause. Did you really think to march into Pryd Town and turn me to your side, to trade one master for another?" He held up his hands and closed his eyes, then shook his head fiercely and glowered at the Highwayman. "I have told you more than once to be gone from this place, on penalty of death."

"Hear me, Laird Bannagran, I beg," Bransen pleaded. "I just saved your life and ask only that you hear me out fully."

"I know everything you mean to say, and it bores me, as you bore me. You want me to turn against King Yeslnik in the desperate hope that we might put Dame Gwydre on the throne of Honce-Dame Gwydre, who knows nothing of the land and people south of the Gulf of Corona, and they know nothing of her. Dame Gwydre, who is just a name, after all. King Yeslnik has won the day. You know it to be true. The best advice you might offer to your precious lady is that she sue for peace and beg forgiveness. Her cause is lost."

"That she will never do," came a woman's voice from the doorway, and both men turned to see Gwydre herself standing there, wearing nothing but a simple nightshirt, her short hair rumpled as if she had just awakened.

"Then you do a disservice to those you claim to champion, lady," Bannagran said. "I have more warriors here in Pryd Town alone than you and Ethelbert together might muster, and my force is a third of what King Yeslnik can put on the field against you, less than a third!"

"It matters not at all," the unshaken woman replied. "I follow the cause of justice. I can march no other way, and justice demands the defeat of King Yeslnik. This is not about me, Laird Bannagran, nor is it about you, nor about Bransen. It is about the people of Honce, the farmers and the fishermen, the children and the elders so full of wisdom. They call out in voices thinned by the thunderous march of armies, but I hear them. And Bransen hears them. Does Bannagran?"

The Bear of Honce laughed and walked over to stand right before her. "For them, Dame? Or should I call you Queen Gwydre?" he asked sarcastically.

"It is not about me," Gwydre said quietly.

"Is it not?" Bannagran shouted in her face. "You feign humility and generosity and will send a thousand more to their graves, and all, and only, so that you can be queen!"

Gwydre slapped him across the face, and Bransen sucked in his breath.

Bannagran laughed, though, and Gwydre moved to slap him again, but this time, he caught her by the wrist. Undaunted, the woman slapped at him with her left hand, but again, Bannagran caught that one, too, in his iron grip, and with a quick tug, he brought Dame Gwydre right up against him.

And then he kissed her.

Bransen tried to shout in protest, but he had no voice with which to yell. He started forward just as Gwydre finally managed to pull back from Bannagran.

She held her hand up to stop Bransen.

"Get out," Bannagran called over his shoulder to Bransen, and he tossed the bandanna and the soul stone to the floor near the wiry man. "The same way you came in."

"I'll not leave Dame Gwy-"

"Bransen, go," Gwydre bade him.

"And you, lady, would do well to get yourself back to your room, lest one of my sentries see you with your charms so exposed and… well, do what a man will do."

"It is not about me, Laird Bannagran," Gwydre said as she moved to the room's door, where, indeed, a sentry stood and stared at her with a rather lewd smile. Dame Gwydre just ignored him.

"I'll not make you the Queen of Honce, lady," Bannagran assured her.

"Then make yourself the King of Honce," Gwydre said and exited.

Bannagran had no response to that. He stood staring at the open doorway, and behind him stood Bransen, frozen in place with his hands tying the bandanna about his head.

Finally, Bannagran managed to turn about and fix Bransen with a glare. With a tapped salute, Bransen slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.

The Highwayman wandered for more than an hour, ending up at the lake, not far from the house where he had lived with Garibond. He looked back at that dark structure now and thought of all the good times he had shared with Garibond. Fishing, reading the secrets of his father's Book of Jhest, just those moments of quiet and serenity sitting across the table from his adoptive father, a man who needed little and asked for nothing.

The distraction of that pleasant memory could not hold, however, and Bransen found himself staring across the dark waters, wondering what in the world had prompted Dame Gwydre's parting remark to Bannagran.

"King Bannagran," Bransen said aloud, just to hear it, just to try to absorb it.

He couldn't. No matter how many times he whispered the name, it sounded discordant in his heart-a heart still broken from the loss of Garibond, a heart still stung by the actions of Bannagran. Bransen had thought that he had put most of this behind him. Had he not come here, Gwydre in tow, to make peace with the man, after all? Had he not come here to teach Bannagran the truth of Bannagran, for it was, in many regards, the same truth Bransen had finally come to know about himself?

So why had Dame Gwydre's words so unsettled him?

Because he had come to enlist Bannagran in the cause of Dame Gwydre, a goodly cause. He had come to Pryd to give Bannagran a chance at redemption and perhaps a greater opportunity to follow a more just road going forward. But this was different, for if Bannagran fought for the cause of Bannagran there was no altruism, no penance, no redemption, and in that void, how could Bransen ever consider the man worthy of the title?

And in that regard, could Bransen really fight for Bannagran as he had chosen to fight for Dame Gwydre? He had no answers to those unsettling questions, none at all. But he had to find them. He stared at the water, reached up, and untied his bandanna with one hand, dropping his soul stone into the other.

Bransen took a deep breath, then another, afraid of the journey before him. He thought of Giavno, forever wounded, and reminded himself that Bannagran, though untrained in the magic of the sacred gemstones, was a man of great discipline and fortitude.

But Bransen had to know.

He closed his eyes and brought his clenched fist and the soul stone right between his eyes, focusing on its teeming energy, seeking its inviting depths. In the gray smoothness, Bransen found release, his spirit drawing from his corporeal form and flying free into the dark Pryd night.

Straight for Castle Pryd, he flew, up high along the keep's sides and to the same windowsill through which he had charged earlier that night.

Snoring, Bannagran lay sprawled in his cushiony chair before the now dark hearth, his arms hanging out to either side, legs straight out before him. He still wore his muddy boots and had his great axe near at hand, leaning on the side of the chair. Two bottles lay on the floor, one empty, one nearly so.

Bransen built a picture in his mind-a scroll Father Artolivan had shown him of the order from Yeslnik that all of the prisoners from Laird Ethelbert's forces be executed. Bransen wasn't sure of the exact wording, but he formulated the thought clearly-Ethelbert's men were to be executed-and used that solid notion to lead the way into the spirit of the sleeping man.

Bannagran snorted and stirred, and an image of Dame Gwydre in her revealing nightshirt-more revealing than Bransen remembered it by far!-flashed in Bransen's consciousness. More images of the woman flitted about, but Bransen didn't pause to reflect upon them.

He stabbed at Bannagran's dream-Execute the prisoners!

A wall of anger came back at Bransen, accompanied by a jumble of thoughts: that it would outrage the peasants, that such an action would dispirit their own soldiers, that such an edict would push the one ascendant church away, and, finally and most important to Bransen, that it was simply wrong.

The order was an action without honor.

There the Highwayman had his answer, so quickly and so concisely, that Bannagran, the great Bear of Honce, the fearless and ferocious warrior who had cut so many enemies down, was, as Bransen had guessed, possessed of some measure of honor.

A great measure, considering the anger that continued to roil in the man.

Bransen felt drawn deeper into this complicated mind. He thought of Giavno again, briefly, but couldn't help himself as Bannagran's dreams invited him in.

Yeslnik! Bransen's thoughts shouted, for he wanted to capture an unvarnished response, a sense of the man's gut, before the inevitable moment when Bannagran recognized the horrific intrusion and instinctively fought back.

Yeslnik!

Bransen felt the roar of revulsion as intimately as if it were his own, and, for a brief moment, he thought it was aimed at him, at his intrusion. But no, he realized, Bannagran hadn't yet registered the possession for what it was, and so the revulsion was aimed squarely at the would-be King of Honce.

Gwydre! Bransen fired at him, and the images flowed freely, and Bannagran stirred again, even physically thrashed a bit on the cushiony chair. Bransen felt the warmth there… no, not warmth but heat.

He thought of Cadayle; he couldn't help but think of Cadayle!

And then there was Bannagran, thoughts afire, but not about Gwydre, nay, about the horror of this nightmare, of this intrusion.

Bransen retreated and ran away. With every bit of discipline he could muster-with every memory of lost Giavno playing loudly-Bransen resisted the primal urge to remain and to possess, the temptation that had destroyed so many monks, and he ran away. His spirit flew out the window and across the castle courtyard, over the wall, and out to the lake in the east, to the beacon of light that was the soul stone.

He came back to physical consciousness sitting on the rock by the lake, his hands trembling and mouth agape, gasping for breath. Reflexively, he glanced back toward the distant castle, as if he expected Bannagran to be exiting the gates, leading an army to find him and kill him for his violation.

Gradually Bransen calmed and sorted through the tumult of thoughts and images, the revulsion at the order of execution and at Yeslnik himself, and the strength of arousal at the notion of Dame Gwydre!

Bransen didn't return to Chapel Pryd that night but found some sleep right there beside the quiet lake, whose stillness so contrasted with the turbulence that roared in Bransen's spinning thoughts. The next morning, Dame Gwydre found Bannagran sitting on his throne in the main hall of the ground floor of Castle Pryd, his bearded chin in his hands and a look of great consternation on his dark face.

"You will honor the agreement and flag of parlay?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she added, "I will be out to the north and rid of Pryd Town this very morning."

Bannagran lifted his head and looked up at her, appearing as if her words had not at all registered.

Gwydre eyed him curiously. "The flag of parlay?" she asked.

"Go where you will."

"Laird?"

"He's turned me back to the east," Bannagran replied, which only made Gwydre's puzzled expression screw up even more.

After a moment of consideration, she asked, "King Yeslnik?"

"I'm not needed along the Masur Delaval," Bannagran informed her. "And so it is back to Ethelbert dos Entel for my forces. There you have it, lady, get your Vanguardsmen to Laird Ethelbert's side and perhaps you can sting King Yeslnik's smaller force, far from home for both of us."

"Why would you tell me…?" Gwydre's voice trailed off. "You were sent there to vanquish Laird Ethelbert, then recalled, and now, so soon, you are being turned about once more?"

"I lose ten men for every league we march," Bannagran replied. "Provisions have grown scarce from our passage, there and back, and the folk of all the towns between Pryd and Ethelbert dos Entel now flee when they hear word of an army, any army, drawing near-they flee, and quite efficiently, leaving little behind for hungry scavengers."

"You would tell this to King Yeslnik, but he wouldn't hear."

Bannagran snickered helplessly.

"Would General Bannagran advise this march at this time?" Gwydre asked.

"No."

"But Laird Ethelbert is a dangerous foe."

"Be gone, lady," Bannagran bade her.

"You know that this man you follow is not worthy to be king," Gwydre said. Bannagran looked up to glare at her, but she didn't back down. "You know it. Indeed, you know that his reign will be disastrous throughout its length, short may it be."

"Be gone, lady," Bannagran said again, this time with an ominous tone in his voice, one that told Gwydre that she was pushing him too hard.

"Perhaps I will return to you in the coming weeks," she said, and Bannagran looked at her as if she were insane. "When you can better judge my actions against your King Yeslnik. When you see the truth of who I am and what I do and how I do it. Will you honor my flag of parlay again, Laird Bannagran?"

Bannagran snorted, shook his head, and chuckled helplessly. "If you have something to say worth hearing, lady."

Gwydre smiled coyly. "I always do."

She bowed and moved away, out the castle doors and across the courtyard. She arrived at Chapel Pryd, standing before Master Reandu, at the same time as Bransen arrived from the lake.

"The parlay is ended," she told the monk.

"Profitably, I hope."

"We shall see," Gwydre started to say, but Bransen interrupted with a sly, "Yes."

Gwydre and Reandu looked at him curiously. "What do you know?" the Dame of Vanguard asked.

"I know Bannagran," Bransen replied cryptically, and as the others stared, he offered no more.

Finally, with a shrug, Gwydre addressed Reandu. "I may return in time."

"That would be advised," said a still smiling Bransen, and again the other two looked at him curiously.

"We may be gone," Master Reandu replied. "There are rumors afoot that Laird Bannagran has been ordered back to the east to do battle with Laird Ethelbert."

"He has," Gwydre confirmed. "But I doubt he'll go. The events in the heart of Honce will change quickly, and King Yeslnik will find that he needs Laird Bannagran right here in Pryd Town to protect his flank."

"We are all weary of the road and the war," said Reandu.

"Not all," Bransen said with a grin.

"Come," Gwydre bade Bransen. "We have much to do."

They set off to the north, bounding across the fields in great, gemstone-enhanced strides.