The Highwayman

24

The Laird's Manly Sword Bannagran banged on the wooden door, his huge fist nearly dislodging it from its frame.

"You would be wise to open the door," he called. "You may need it when the battle comes north!" He hit the splintering wood again with a resounding thump that made the door lean into the hovel.

Finally, the door opened a crack, and the dirty face of an old woman appeared.

"If ye're coming for coins for yer laird, we got none left, master," she said.

"Not for coins," Bannagran replied. "And I trust that if you happened upon a few, you would know to deliver the proper amount to Castle Pryd."

"Then what? More food's what ye're wanting? Oh, but ain't we to keep enough to feed our own skinny bodies?"

"Not food," Bannagran replied. "A regiment of Laird Ethelbert has been sighted in the east. Men are needed."

The woman gave a cry and fell back, trying to close the door tight, but Bannagran's heavy fist knocked it open. He and the two soldiers accompanying him strode into the one-room hovel.

"Bah, ye took me husband and now who's knowing if he's dead? Ye took me brothers and not a one's to be found! What more are ye asking?"

"You have a son of fifteen winters," Bannagran replied.

"He's dead!" the woman shrieked. "I killed him meself. Better that than he get all chopped in some bloody field!"

As she spoke, Bannagran motioned to one of the soldiers, who moved to the hanging curtain that divided the room. A tug pulled it down, revealing a small cot, really no more than a wooden frame covered in hay.

The soldier looked back at Bannagran, who nodded for him to proceed.

"Dead, I tell ye!" the woman continued, her voice rising with obvious terror. "I put a pillow over his face while he slept. A peaceful way."

"If I believed your tale, then I would have you executed," Bannagran said matter-of-factly.

"For murder? He's me son, and I can kill him if I'm choosing."

"For stealing from Laird Prydae," the large man replied. "All the folk are the property of the laird, and you've no right to deny him his possessions. Whether he is your child is not important." He nodded and the soldier upended the cot, revealing a teenage boy and a younger girl, huddled together on the floor against the wall.

"Come on," the soldier said, and he reached down and hooked the boy under the arm and roughly pulled him to his feet.

The girl started crying; the woman rushed past to intercept.

But Bannagran caught her by the back of her tunic and easily held her in place. She tried to turn and swing at him, but he had her quickly wrapped in one powerful arm, and she couldn't begin to wriggle away.

"Ye can't have him!" she cried. "Ye can't be taking him! Oh, ye dogs!"

Bannagran squeezed her more tightly and hoisted her up so that his scowling face was barely an inch from hers. "Foolish woman. If we do not go out and meet the threat of Ethelbert, his soldiers will knock down your door and knock down your house. They'll kill your boy when he hasn't even a weapon in hand to defend himself, and they'll take you…" He paused and offered a wicked smile. "Might be that you're too ugly to interest them, but that wouldn't be your gain. They'd take your daughter instead, every one of them would, and leave her torn and bleeding and broken. Perhaps she's old enough to bear a child-is that what you're wanting, old fool? Do you wish upon your daughter a bastard child whose father you'll never know?"

The woman was crying so violently now that she couldn't answer. Nor did she offer any more resistance. Bannagran released her and shoved her back, then followed the two soldiers, who were flanking the subdued boy, out of the house.

"That makes twelve," one of the soldiers said when they were outside.

"Enough for this group, then," Bannagran explained. "Get him to the castle and fit him with leather armor and a weapon." He looked more closely at the boy, even reached over and felt the skinny biceps. "A spear for him. He couldn't hit anything hard enough with a sword to make a difference."

Bannagran quickly climbed onto his horse and turned the mount away, not wanting the others to see his continuing scowl. He found this duty distasteful, and he was quite weary of pulling men-and now boys-from their families. He heard the woman's frantic shrieks and prodded his horse on more swiftly, wanting to put the noises far behind.

He rode away from the others and moved closer to Pryd Town, trying to ignore the haunted stares of the many people in the streets. Not a family had escaped the last six months of the war unscathed. Bannagran wondered if Pryd Holding would survive this wave of battle; an entire generation of menfolk could be wiped out if Laird Ethelbert persisted in his designs for conquest. Already, more than three hundred of Pryd's menfolk were known dead-a hundred and fifty alone in the battle of Bariglen's Coe.

As he rode toward Castle Pryd, Bannagran thought back to those days of battle against the powries in the east, when Laird Ethelbert and his legions had held the flanking ground north of the men of Pryd. The laird of the great holding in southeastern Honce had rescued him, Prydae, and all the others when they had been caught in a powrie web. Even then, though, Bannagran had seen the first signs of coming trouble. The roads were complete, crossing Honce from Delaval City to Ethelbert dos Entel, through Pryd and Cannis and all the way to Palmaristown on the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval. With that network came the march of armies to push the powries back, and with that network came the march of armies to expand the influence of their respective lairds. Already, Palmaristown was under the rule of Laird Delaval, and all the Mantis Arm heeded the commands of Laird Ethelbert.

It was Pryd Holding's bad fortune to rest halfway between the two dominating lairds.

Castle Pryd's drawbridge was down over the newly constructed moat, and the great champion of Pryd, the most recognizable warrior in all the land, didn't slow as he thundered across the wooden bridge and between the gate towers-also newly built-and into the lower bailey of the rapidly expanding castle. He pulled up short and leaped down as attendants moved quickly to tend to his strong mount.

To his right sat the Laird Prydae's private chapel, with an open garden behind it for those occasions when Bernivvigar came into the castle proper to offer his prayers and blessings. This was the oldest building in the castle, dating back many generations, and was of a stone more gray than the main castle structure. The architecture of the chapel, too, was more primitive, with thicker walls and smaller windows. Past the chapel lay the only predominantly wooden building in the complex, the barracks, nearly empty now, as most of the men were off patrolling.

Directly ahead of Bannagran, opposite the main gate, sat the great keep, the tower of Laird Prydae, connected at its base to the castle's dining hall and audience chamber.

The two men standing guard at the keep's heavy wooden door moved quickly when they saw Bannagran's approach, pulling wide the double doors, then standing at attention, eyes ahead and unblinking, as their commander walked through.

The bottom floor of the keep, the only square room in the tower, was sparsely appointed, with only a pair of chairs set before the large hearth, a thick rug beneath them. Bannagran's eyes were drawn to that hearth and to the empty hooks above it. Not too long ago, Laird Prydae's magnificent sword, a gift of the brothers of Abelle, had hung there. But the laird had recently moved it to his private quarters, safely out of sight whenever any of the noblemen of Laird Delaval's court came calling. For when they came, they did so with their hands out, seeking money or goods, and Laird Prydae knew well that his sword, a creation far beyond anything any blacksmith in Honce could hope to forge, would be greatly desired.

That was the one treasure in all his holding that Laird Prydae would not surrender.

Bannagran was surprised that his friend wasn't down here taking his breakfast, as was Prydae's custom at this hour. The warrior moved for the stairs on the left side of the room but paused at the base when he heard a woman crying up above.

Somewhere behind her, Prydae cursed, "Harlot!" and then, "Rotfish!"

Bannagran put his head down and drew a deep breath. He knew the insults well enough, had heard Prydae launch them at women for a decade now. As ruler of Pryd, it was Prydae's privilege to take any woman in the holding, married or not, a tender child or an old hag, as his lover. "Lover" wasn't quite the right word with regard to Prydae, Bannagran supposed, for the scars of the laird's powrie wound would not permit it, despite the work of the monks with their soul stones, despite the many sacrifices of other men's genitals old Bernivvigar had offered over the years.

Inevitably, when he failed to perform, Prydae would blame the woman, calling her harlot and other similar insults, and "rotfish," a term usually reserved for a woman of no sexual imagination, who would lie still as a receptive, yet unmoving, vessel.

The woman, a pretty enough thing-as long as she hid her three-toothed smile-in her mid-twenties, came out on the top balcony and rushed to the highest of the four visible staircases, her clothing bundled about her, hardly hiding her ample charms. Her bare feet slapped on the wide wooden stairs as she scurried down to the next balcony, her face wet with tears.

Bannagran recognized her-he remembered the day he had taken her husband away to join a group marching south to battle.

She hardly glanced at him as she rushed past, sobbing at every step.

Bannagran watched her go, then looked back to the top stairs, where Prydae stood naked and half erect, his face red with frustration, his fists clenched in rage. "Rotfish!" he cried again, and he banged his hand hard against the wall, then moved back.

Bannagran shook his head and sighed, then moved to one of the chairs before the hearth and poured himself a drink of Prydae's wine. He took a seat and stared into the embers, some still showing lines of orange, wisps of smoke slipping out from the ash and drifting lazily up the chimney.

It was some time before Prydae came down to sit beside him.

"Useless bitch," the laird said, and he filled, drained, and refilled his wine goblet before offering more to Bannagran. "A sound other than a whimper, a movement beyond her drawing of breath-is that too much to ask?"

"You were close this time?" Bannagran asked.

Prydae set his goblet down on the arm of his large, upholstered wooden chair and rubbed both his hands over his still-red face. "Better if the powrie had taken it all," he said, "and taken, too, the desires that burn within me."

"You seek the treasure of a dragon," Bannagran remarked, "and have found its footsteps on several occasions. Is not the hunt worth your time, my liege?"

"I seek the honey of a woman," Prydae corrected. "And have seen the sweets before my eyes and within my reach, and yet I cannot grasp them! Is not the frustration more than any man should bear?"

Bannagran chuckled as he brought his goblet up to his lips and tasted the smooth red wine from the grapes of Laird Delaval's western fields. "The honey will be sweeter for your wait," he replied.

Prydae joined him with a chuckle of his own, but they both knew that this was much more serious than the frivolous pleasures of an overamorous laird. If Prydae could perform-and he had come so close on several occasions-and produce an heir to the line of Pryd, then the politics of all the regions would dramatically change, and for the betterment of Pryd Holding. The only reason Laird Ethelbert had not named Prydae as his successor and heir of all his holdings was because it had become apparent that the line would end with Prydae.

Conversely, that fact had brought Laird Delaval to Prydae's side; and the pact between Pryd Holding and the most powerful laird in all Honce was quite specific: when the line of Pryd ended, Delaval or his heirs would annex Pryd Holding, by contract and treaty.

A son to Laird Prydae could change the dynamics all across southern Honce, and positively on every account for Pryd Holding.

"How much less would be the frustration if the coals below weren't showing signs of fiery life," Bannagran said. He knew that he was, perhaps, the only man who could speak in such a manner to proud Prydae, for he alone knew the intimate details of Prydae's attempted liaisons.

"So close," the laird muttered, and he drained his wine, then moved to refill his goblet.

"Prince Yeslnik is fighting in the south," Bannagran remarked. "His banners have shone on the field-word has it that he is leading charge after charge."

"Your voice says that you do not think this likely."

"Prince Yeslnik is no warrior. Likely, his champions are riding forth in his stead, while he sits in the comfort of his carriage far behind. It would seem that outside of the small holdings, places like Pryd, the nobleman warrior is fast becoming a lost notion."

"Delaval was a great warrior, as was Ethelbert, who put his sword to the task only a decade ago, beside us in the east."

"Was, my laird," Bannagran replied, and he looked at Prydae doubtfully, for both of them knew the laird's last remark to be an exaggeration. In truth, Ethelbert's armor was rarely dirtied and never bloodied in all the months of their campaign. "Was," Bannagran repeated. "Among the lairds of Honce, I doubt that any could stand in battle more than a few moments before you."

"Ah, but in the bedroom…" Prydae replied with a mocking laugh, and he lifted his goblet in toast.

Bannagran didn't drink to that.

"Yeslnik will make a name for himself," Prydae said.

"Yeslnik's champions will make a name for him," Bannagran corrected.

"Can any less be said of Bannagran and Prydae?"

"Yes," the champion answered immediately and with complete sincerity. "The name of Bannagran is known-not once did Prydae claim the credit for the successes of Bannagran. Not once did Prydae need the achievements of champions to heighten his own claims to glory."

"You are kind, my friend." Prydae lifted his goblet to Bannagran for another toast, and this time, the warrior did lift his own. "There were occasions when I wore your powrie trophies as if they were my own."

"And more occasions when you wore trophies of your own victories."

"Perhaps it is nearing time for me to put the Behrenese sword to use," Prydae said. "Will we ride south, my friend? Two warriors, side by side, to help drive back the hordes of Laird Ethelbert?"

Bannagran paused and considered the words carefully, then slowly shook his head. "We will have all that we can handle should Ethelbert turn a portion of his force north and strike at us from the east. The work on Castle Pryd is not yet completed, and five thousand men would press us hard, even behind our walls. Laird Ethelbert has twice that to spare."

"True enough," Prydae admitted.

"You will find the opportunity to bloody the silver blade of your sword, I suspect and fear. Battles rage across the width and breadth of Honce." Bannagran needed yet another drink as he considered the truth of his words. All the land was in chaos. The roads had been built with the promise of greater trade and a greater ability to rid the land of the powries and the goblins. And at first, that promise had been realized, with the powries thinned to irrelevance and pushed to the sea, and the goblins all but eradicated throughout the land east of the Masur Delaval and south of the great Gulf of Corona.

But now the holdings were warring. Now Delaval and Ethelbert fought for dominance on a wide scale, while minor holdings battled over small pieces of valuable land. Even the powries had returned, or were beginning to, as reports of bloody cap murders seemed to increase daily throughout the land.

Bannagran drained his goblet. He didn't mind battle, didn't mind killing powries or slaughtering goblins.

But killing other men was something quite different, something that left him sour and empty.