The Bear

TWENTY-NINE

Yeslnik stared out from the high window of his keep, beyond the walls of Delaval City to a field blackened by a great and combined army. He had less than two legions, no more, for in the rout many had died, many more had fled, and many, so said the rumors, had turned against him, joining the ranks of the Bear of Honce.

"Milwellis," he whispered, he begged to the wind, praying for the Laird of Palmaristown to come forth and crush the army before his gates. He looked to the river, where an armada of his warships and those of Palmaristown had gathered, but they remained far out in the river, out of range of Bannagran's archers.

He rubbed his face.

"He will come," Olym assured him when he turned around. "Harcourt will tell us."

She referred to the news that had come to Yeslnik's chambers only a few moments before, an announcement that General Harcourt of Palmaristown, Laird Milwellis's second, had somehow managed to bypass Bannagran and Gwydre's tens of thousands and enter Delaval City.

"When will Milwellis attack?" Yeslnik demanded of Harcourt as the man was escorted through his door.

The general stopped his march and cast a curious look Yeslnik's way. "Laird Milwellis is dead," he replied. "And his army scattered before the rage of Dame Gwydre and some demon dactyl known as the Highwayman."

"What?" Yeslnik screamed, coming out of his throne and trembling. "I lent you legions!"

"The carrion birds feast well in Blenden Coe," Harcourt replied. "The army was broken and the battle ended, even before Laird Bannagran arrived with thousands more to bolster Dame Gwydre's cause and with the warriors of Ethelbert dos Entel beside him to bolster the cause of both."

"But surely you have something left?" Yeslnik pleaded. "I see the armada in the river!"

"Crewed thinly," said Harcourt, "and by no force that might do battle with the Bear of Honce."

"But you got in here, and so we can escape," Yeslnik said, grasping at any hope he could find.

Harcourt laughed at him. "Laird Bannagran, who has my sword in surrender, sent me in," he explained, and Yeslnik fell back into his throne. "He demands that you yield. Delaval City, all of Honce, is his, is King Bannagran's." He paused and drew a deep sigh. "And Queen Gwydre's, curse her name."

"No!" Yeslnik screamed, slamming his fist on the arm of his oaken throne. "No! We must kill them! You must kill them!"

Harcourt looked at him with an expression of pity… not pity for feeble King Yeslnik but for all of Honce, it seemed. "All is lost," he said somberly, and he bowed and exited the room.

Yeslnik sat as if frozen for many heartbeats, then finally leaped from his throne and rushed out of the room, to the top of the long stair.

"You cannot leave me!" he screamed at the man now far below. "You cannot! I command that you kill them!"

Yeslnik felt a strong grip on his shoulder, and he swung about to see Olym before him. "You do it!" she screamed at him, pounding on him frantically. "Strengthen your army! Hold strong the walls until they are gone! You feeble fool! You should have stayed on the field as your generals demanded, to defeat Bannagran out there!"

"While you fled?" Yeslnik screamed back.

"I am your queen! You must protect me!"

She hit him, but now, for the first time in his life, Yeslnik was having no more. He balled his fist and slugged Olym hard in the face, then repeatedly slapped and punched her, and, when that did not suffice to satisfy his rage, he grabbed her by the hair and tugged hard, taking out not only a handful of strands but a hairpin as well.

He struck with it, stabbing it into Olym's chest. Again and again, Yeslnik pumped his arm, all of his fury playing out with every invasion of his wife's flesh.

She screamed, she begged, she threw herself against him.

But Yeslnik merely growled, glad that he had mortally wounded her.

He kept growling until he realized that he couldn't support her great bulk against him and that his heels were against the top step of a long staircase. Cormack and Milkeila had not marched that afternoon with Gwydre and Bannagran back to Delaval City. As soon as the battle had ended, Bannagran and Gwydre had swung about in pursuit of Yeslnik, to be done with this all. But they had left many behind to tend the wounded, to pile and burn the dead. So Cormack and Milkeila remained about Blenden Coe, with so many wounded to tend and so many questions still unanswered.

It wasn't until two days later, the same morning that Harcourt arrived in Delaval City, that the pair at last discovered some credible witnesses who led them to a burned and scarred copse of trees. The couple made their way among the many trunks and roots, and, of all the treasures that would be looted from the carnage of Blenden Coe in the aftermath of that battle, none shone more precious than the sword Milkeila found on the ground in the leaves beneath one tall maple.

The woman paused a long while, steadying herself, before she dared look up.

To the tree-borne grave of the Highwayman. "He's dead," the young and pretty woman said to Harcourt when he rushed back to the stairs to view the broken body of King Yeslnik. "They're both dead!"

"What do we do?" another attendant asked in despair, and, indeed, the gloom spread wide and far and fast.

"We open the gates," Harcourt said, and all eyes looked upon him. "And pray that our conquerors are beneficent."

The gates of Delaval City were opened that day, as the sun sank low in the western sky, as, in a field far away, Cormack and Milkeila knelt and cried and kissed the hero who had won the day in Blenden Coe.

Harcourt of Palmaristown met the royal procession at the gates as they marched. He presented King Yeslnik's sword to Laird Bannagran… nay, to King Bannagran.

Bannagran took it and looked to Queen Gwydre at his side. Then he glanced at Master Reandu and at Laird Ethelbert, following right behind, who nodded his agreement.

Bannagran accepted Yeslnik's sword but in turn gave Harcourt back the sword the general had surrendered in Blenden Coe.

And in that moment, the horns of Pryd began to blow, and the horns of Delaval City replied, and the horns of Vanguard resounded, and the horns of Ethelbert dos Entel joined in, and from the ships in the river came the horns of Palmaristown, and in that moment of confusion and fear, there came to Delaval City, hope. Unlike so many who had left Blenden Coe, traveling straight to Delaval City to attend the formal wedding and coronation of Bannagran and Gwydre, Cormack and Milkeila took a more roundabout route, moving north and west to the bank of the Masur Delaval not far south from Palmaristown.

It seemed a fool's chase, even to Cormack, who had insisted upon it, but he was determined to at least try. He owed his unlikely friends that much.

Whether it was some magic in the powrie beret he wore or a matter of good information gleaned from some of Milwellis's soldiers or simply dumb luck or some combination of the three, Cormack did not know, but walking along the river, the monk recognized the familiar face immediately, though it was bloated in death and well along in rot.

But he knew this dwarf, without doubt.

"And Bikelbrin's up here," Milkeila called a few moments later from the rise just off the river. "I cannot believe that we found them!"

Cormack stood hands on hips, looking down at the powrie who had befriended him. The weight of all the world fell on his shoulders in that one moment, and tears escaped his eyes. Tears for Mcwigik and Bikelbrin, tears for Bransen, tears for Jameston Sequin, tears for all the dead and all the maimed and all the grieving.

"Bury them?" Milkeila asked, for she was not sure why Cormack had insisted on this expedition.

The monk shook his head. He drew a knife from his belt and crouched down over his dead powrie friend.

"Cormack!" Milkeila yelled at him when he started cutting, but he did not stop, and by the time the woman arrived at his side, he stood up and showed her Mcwigik's heart. Methodically, the monk went to Bikelbrin and similarly cut out his heart.

"What are you doing?" Milkeila asked repeatedly as Cormack found a clear spot in from the river, a place suitable for his needs. He placed the hearts down gently and began to dig with his knife.

"Help me," he said.

"You bury their hearts?"

"And then we sing," Cormack said. Milkeila paused and stared at him suspiciously.

She went to her work, though, and they finished the hole and placed the hearts of Mcwigik and Bikelbrin within.

Cormack tapped down the replaced earth, then grabbed Milkeila by the shoulders and bent low in a huddle. He began the cadence of the song he had learned long ago in a place far away, and Milkeila dutifully chanted along, though she did not know the words.

It didn't matter, Cormack thought, for what did he know of this ritual anyway? Would two new dwarves, offspring of his friends, actually come forth?

"That is Sepulcher?" Milkeila asked when they were done.

Cormack nodded.

"Why?" the woman asked.

"I don't know," Cormack answered honestly. "A debt repaid?"

The couple stood holding hands above the graves, the womb of Mcwigik and Bikelbrin, for a long, long while.

And there they put the past behind them and turned south toward Delaval City, toward the future.