The Highwayman

35

The Downward Spiral He stayed near the edges of town as the sun climbed in the eastern sky. He knew that he should return to the chapel, knew that he was taking a giant risk in remaining out and about. The monks would go to his room when they noticed that he was not doing his daily chores.

But none of that mattered to Bransen now; nothing beyond the reality of Garibond's death mattered. He couldn't believe the tale those living in what had once been his home had told him. He couldn't imagine that Master Bathelais, scowling as he often was, could be so despicably cruel as to have murdered a man as fine as Garibond. And what of Brother Reandu? Perhaps Reandu wasn't as powerful in the order back then as he was now, but certainly he would have protested the execution. It made no sense to Bransen as he wandered through the shadows under the many trees that marked the outskirts of Pryd Town, and yet, he found that he could not deny that which was obvious.

The man at the campfire had Garibond's knife. The people in his house were sincere, and why would they lie, given that such a lie might well mark their doom at the hands of this masked stranger who had come banging on their door? Bransen knew that they couldn't be telling the truth, that Garibond couldn't be dead, and certainly not by the hands of the brothers who had been his protectors all these years. And yet he knew that they certainly were speaking honestly. He had seen it in their faces.

At one cluster of trees, the weary young man plopped down in the shade and leaned back against a white birch. He tried to sort through every memory he had of every encounter even remotely relating to Garibond these past ten years. He remembered Brother Reandu's face on the one occasion when he had mentioned his father, the initial shock Reandu had shown, the obvious discomfort behind his stuttered responses.

But what did it all mean? If Garibond was dead, murdered by the brothers of Blessed Abelle, what did it all mean to Bransen and for Bransen?

A myriad of emotions rolled through him, everything ranging from anger to despair to the feeling that he had to run and hide somewhere, somewhere dark and deep, where no one would ever find him. All the confidence of the Highwayman flew from him, and he felt again the helpless little boy he had been. But what did it matter, after all? He thought again of his absence at the chapel, and of the implications should he be discovered, and he shrugged them away. How could he go back there, knowing the truth? He would have to face Master Bathelais and Brother Reandu. He would have to demand the truth from them, though he already knew it, in his heart at least. And then what? What could he say to them? What explanation could they possibly offer that would make any difference to the realities of their actions? For Bransen knew Garibond's heart as well as he knew his own, and if that man was a heretic in the eyes of the brothers of Abelle, then the brothers of Abelle were simply entirely wrong.

Bransen found a stream of sunlight flowing in through an opening in the trees, and he lay down, staring up at the fiery orb. He wanted the rays to permeate his corporeal form, to cleanse him of the impurities and anxieties, to empty him of his rage and his pain. He closed his eyes, and exhaustion overcame him.

He knew at once, when he awoke, that the day was nearing its end, and that any hope he might hold of sneaking into the chapel unnoticed was long lost. Instinctively, he began concocting possible explanations and excuses to explain the absence of the Stork.

But then he stopped himself, coming to understand clearly that he truly had no intention of ever returning to the chapel as the Stork, of serving the wretched brothers of Abelle ever again. He would go back, perhaps, but as the Highwayman, formidable and angry and demanding the entire truth of Garibond's fate.

He wasn't ready to travel that mental course, and he winced against the tear in his heart. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

But what was he to do? Bransen glanced to the west and the lowering sun, its rim just beginning to brush the horizon. The world seemed so huge to him and so imposing. And he felt so small and so empty, without anywhere to go, without anyone on whom he could lean his weary frame.

No, that wasn't true, he realized, and before he even sorted out the emotion, his feet were already moving, propelling him to the south and west, toward the house of the one person in all the world Bransen felt he could still trust.

But when he got there, Cadayle was not at home. Nor was her mother, and the broken door spoke volumes to Bransen as he hesitantly stepped across the threshold and into the dark house.

He knew she wasn't there. Her smell wasn't there, the freshness she brought wherever she walked wasn't there, leaving the place dark and cold and empty. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he slowly and deliberately scanned the room, afraid as his gaze roamed over every inch of space that he would find the body of his beloved.

Nothing was amiss, save the broken door. He saw no signs of struggle, no blood.

But they were gone.

Bransen's breath began to come in heaves, as he steadied himself and strengthened his resolve. He had come here thinking to lean on Cadayle; now he began to understand that it was she who likely needed him.

He would not, could not, fail her.

He turned and realized his error immediately as he found a pair of iron swords pointing at his throat.

"Easy now, Highwayman," one of the soldiers said.

The Highwayman noticed a third and then a fourth soldier moving around the sides of the small house.

"We knew you'd return, and now you're fairly caught," said the other, and he prodded his sword forward menacingly. "Laird Prydae will be speaking with you."

"Indeed," the Highwayman replied, the irony lost on the pair. He brought his hands up, palms out, in apparent surrender.

And then his foot flashed up, before him; and though the soldiers were but inches from him, so nimble was the Highwayman, so in control of his every movement, that his foot struck unerringly into the face of one, then the second, so quickly that neither registered the movement but just felt the sudden jolt.

Both staggered a step, though the blows were not heavy. It was no more than a momentary distraction, but that was all the Highwayman needed. Before his flashing foot even came back to the ground, his other leg propelled him backward, putting some distance between them, and in the same fluid movement, he drew his fabulous sword.

The soldiers hardly realized what had happened, but found themselves facing a swordsman with a blade twice as long as their short iron weapons.

One moved fast, coming forward before the Highwayman could bring that amazing sword to proper angle-so he hoped.

With a sudden surge, the Highwayman slashed down diagonally, driving the soldier's sword low and wide. A reversal brought his elbow smashing into the man's face. The Highwayman changed his angle so that the pommel of his sword connected squarely with the attacker's nose, shattering it. The man was out on his feet, but as the Highwayman squared up again, he launched a left hook that sent the unconscious soldier flying away.

Even as the man fell, the Highwayman came forward. The second soldier, obviously unsure, waved his sword around defensively.

He was too slow, and the Highwayman's blade slipped past, screeching as its tip connected with the man's bronze breastplate. A subtle twist and turn snapped the blade up, forcing the soldier to lean backward fast to avoid getting his face creased.

The enraged Highwayman pressed the attack, turning his sword and using it to keep the soldier's weapon at bay while he plowed forward, pushing the man right over. The soldier hit the ground and rolled immediately, trying to get up, but the Highwayman crossed to the side and kicked him in the face, once and then again. As the man flattened on the ground, the Highwayman stamped hard on the back of his neck, stilling him.

Then the Highwayman turned right, sword leading the way. He meant only to deflect the stabbing spear coming at him from the charging soldier, but his sword sheared the spear in half and scraped the man's breastplate, opening his throat as he came forward, unable to stop in time.

The soldier staggered past, clutching at the gushing blood, and fell to his knees and then to his face in the dirt.

The Highwayman had no time to concern himself with the man. Not then, for he completed his circuit and fell into a crouch facing the fourth and last attacker.

The soldier skidded to a stop, clearly terrified. He threw his sword to the ground and lifted his hands in surrender.

The Highwayman came forward suddenly, sword setting itself right on the top edge of the man's breastplate, poised to drive through his throat.

"Where is she?" the Highwayman demanded.

The man shook his head, looking stupid and out of his mind with fear.

"Cadayle-the young woman who lives here," the Highwayman demanded. "She was taken! You tell me where, or my sword will free your ugly head from your shoulders!"

"I do not know!" the man cried.

"You lie!" the sword jabbed in, forcing a squeal from the man.

"No! No!" the man begged, and he began to cry. "Please do not kill me. A wife I have, and children. Please, I beg of you!"

The words, so full of sincerity and terror, hit the Highwayman and reminded him that these men, these soldiers, even the tax collectors, were more than a part of the oppression that weighed upon the people of Pryd. They were individuals, real people with real lives and families and concerns.

But those concerns found no real hold on the Highwayman in that moment of outrage, overwhelmed by his fears for Cadayle and her mother and by his frustration at the loss of his beloved Garibond. He came forward suddenly and forcefully, bowling the soldier over onto his back and setting his sword once more at the man's throat.

"Your family will bring your body to the brothers of Abelle to be put cold in the ground or to the Samhaists for burning," he warned. "I'll not ask again."

"They took her and her mother," the soldier gasped. "I know not where they took the girl, but the mother was given to Bernivvigar. She will be tried and killed this night by the adder or the flames."

The Highwayman moved his sword tip back and stepped away from the man, his thoughts spinning. He glanced to the west, where the sun was almost gone, then back to the east and south, toward where he knew Bernivvigar held his audiences, his trials, and his murders.

He looked back down at the soldier, still crying, still lying there with his hands up defensively.

"Collect your companions and herd them into the house," he instructed, and when the man didn't immediately move, the Highwayman kicked him hard in the leg. "Now!"

The man scrambled to his feet and did as he was bade, while Bransen moved fast to the soldier whose throat he had cut. He turned the man over, fearing the worst, and was relieved to see that he was not dead, and that the wound, though still bleeding, wasn't gushing forth blood any longer. Still, it was a vicious gash, one that would need tending.

Bransen brought one hand to the wound, the other to the soul stone set under his mask on his forehead. He recalled the lessons of the Book of Jhest, the Healing Hands, and fell even deeper into the swirl of the gray gemstone. He felt warmth in his hands and was amazed to see the wound sealing. He stopped short, though, for he found that the effort was taking from his own control, from the solid line of his own chi. A wave of dizziness came over him, followed by a profound weariness.

But he shook it away, reminding himself of Cadayle. With a growl, he rose from the soldier and called to the man's companion to hurry up.

A short while later, the Highwayman ran off, leaving the four soldiers bound and gagged inside the house's dark walls.