The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  Bannagran walked up beside his prince and dropped a trio of berets at Prydae’s feet. “You claim them as your own, my liege,” he said.

  Prydae looked at his dear and loyal friend. Bannagran was a giant of a man, not so much in height, though he was several inches taller than the norm, but in girth. His shoulders were nearly twice as wide as Prydae’s—and Prydae was no small man—and his bare arms were as thick as a man’s thigh, with the corded muscles one would expect on the hammer arm of a blacksmith. His black hair was long and dripping in the rain like Prydae’s, and though he tried to keep his beard short and his cheeks clean shaven, as was the style of the day, the long days and difficult conditions were allowing that beard to get away from him. Even with that scraggly look, however, Bannagran kept a youthfulness about him, with a broad and often-flashed toothy smile and cheeks that dimpled. His face often turned red, either in mirth or battle lust, and that set off his dark eyes and eyebrows, which seemed, really, like a single thick line of hair.

  Prydae glanced down at the berets. So Bannagran had killed three more in the latest fight; he was making a reputation for himself that would resound from one end of Honce to the other before this campaign was done. Who could have known the prowess this warrior would come to show or the strength? In the early days of their adventuring, a few years before in Pryd Holding, Prydae had always outshone his friend. No more, the prince knew. Prydae was more than holding his own, despite the loss of his prized chariot and fine horse team in the first week of fighting, but Bannagran had caught the notice of every laird in attendance, and no champion wanted to challenge this one.

  “Take them,” the warrior said again. “More than a few here’re complaining openly about the mud and the rain and the shit and the blood. They’re needing a hero to keep them steady on the line when them dwarves come back at us—and you know the vicious little beasties will do just that.”

  It was hard to argue with that. Prydae looked around, following the moans and sharp shrieks of the wounded. So many wounded and so many dead. The folk of Pryd Holding who had accompanied the prince on this journey to the eastern coast had been away from home for more than two years now—and nearly half, at least, would never be returning.

  “Bloody caps coming!” came a cry from far to the right, and Prydae and Bannagran looked down the line to see a wave of dwarves swarming over the crest of a stony ridge and charging toward the human line. Archers let fly, but their barrage hardly seemed to slow the fierce dwarf advance. Prydae scooped the three berets and tucked them into his belt in plain sight.

  “Right beside you, my liege,” said Bannagran, and he moved in step next to Prydae.

  The prince was glad of that.

  “They’re going against Ethelbert’s line,” Prydae remarked as the dwarves bunched together at the base of one ravine and began scrambling up. Above them, the men of Ethelbert Holding threw rocks and launched arrows, but the dwarves growled as one and pressed through the volley.

  “Take the men down,” Prydae said suddenly.

  “My liege?” came the surprised response.

  “Bring the men of Pryd into the gully. We’ll cross below the fighting and when Ethelbert drives the powries back, they will find the metal of Pryd Holding blocking their retreat.” Prydae turned, a tight grin on his face. “Yes, they’ll have the high ground coming against us, but they’ll have no coordination across their line.”

  “Yes, my liege,” Bannagran replied, and Prydae recognized and understood the hesitation in his voice, but also the loyalty. Bannagran immediately began calling the men of Pryd to order.

  “Onward!” Prince Prydae cried, and he lifted his sword high into the air and led the charge straight ahead and down the rocky slope. They swept into the gully, then turned south.

  “Find defensible ground!” Bannagran ordered. He sent a couple of men up the slope in the east, farther from the battle, to ensure that no more powries could rush to join the fray. Wouldn’t the Holding of Pryd bury more than a few of her menfolk if powries on ridge lines east and west caught them holding the low ground in between!

  Before Prydae’s forces could position themselves, the dwarves above to the west, apparently seeing the vise closing about them, began to break ranks and came charging back down the slope.

  “Tight groups!” Prince Prydae cried. “See to your kin!”

  Half the dwarves tumbled in their flight down the steep ground, but if that bothered the hardy, barrel-chested folk, they didn’t show it. Like stones rolling, they hit the lines of the men of Pryd.

  One dwarf came up before Prydae and launched an overhead swing, but Bannagran, standing beside his friend, brought his own axe across to intercept, catching the dwarf’s axe just under its head and holding it fast.

  Prince Prydae wasted no time but stabbed straight out through the opening, driving his sword deeply into the powrie’s chest. The dwarf staggered back but did not fall.

  Prydae jerked hard on the sword, then pulled it free and struck again, a fountain of powrie blood washing over his arm.

  But still the dwarf didn’t fall, and the vicious creature even tried to swing its axe now that Bannagran had retracted his blocking blade.

  Bannagran was the quicker, though, his axe thumping hard into the dwarf beside the embedded sword. The powrie staggered backward, sliding off Prydae’s blade and stumbling to the ground.

  Prydae turned to congratulate his friend, but the words caught in his throat as he realized that Bannagran was in trouble: a pair of dwarves were stabbing and slashing at him, forcing him to stumble sideways. Without even considering the danger, Prydae swept past his friend, his short sword stabbing hard at one powrie and driving it back. Across he swung, his iron blade ringing against the bronze sword of the other dwarf, which snapped at the hilt.

  The powrie threw the pommel against Prydae’s face, but the prince only shouted all the louder and charged in, stabbing with abandon.

  He felt Bannagran rush behind him to finish the other dwarf.

  When both powries finally fell, Bannagran clapped Prydae on the shoulder, and the two spun, looking to see where they could fit into the continuing brawl. One group of Pryd men nearby was sorely pressed by a trio of dwarves—until the prince and his champion leaped into the fray.

  Prydae paused and glanced up the slope, to see the men of Ethelbert Holding cutting the remaining dwarves into smaller and smaller groups. More and more of those powries broke and ran. “Come along then, Laird Ethelbert,” Prydae muttered under his breath, for if the army of the southeastern holding didn’t immediately pursue, he and his men would be even more sorely pressed.

  And at first it did seem as if the men of Ethelbert would hold their defensive position on the high ground.

  “Come along!” Prydae shouted in frustration, for he knew that every second of hesitation would cost a Pryd man his life. “Come along!”

  Laird Ethelbert himself appeared among the ranks on the ridge line, scanning the unexpected fighting down below. He locked eyes with Prydae then. Smiling and nodding, he ordered his men down to the aid of their Pryd comrades.

  Their charge shook the ground, a continual thunderous rumble amid the flashing storm. Powries broke left and right; some tried to cross the ranks of Prydae’s men, all in a desperate effort now to get away.

  And many did escape, but many did not, their blood running with the rainwater along the stones of the gully.

  Through it all, Bannagran and Prydae kept on the move, joining wherever the human line seemed in danger of breaking, standing strong over fallen friends to keep the deadly dwarves at bay.

  When it was done, Bannagran held a handful of berets out to Prydae, but the prince smiled and shook his head. “I have enough of my own this time.”

  Bannagran returned that smile and nodded. Between his work and that of his liege, nine powries had been sent to the otherworldly halls of their ferocious gods.

  “Take the ridge to the east!” Bannagran ordered the men of Pryd. “No retreat t
o the west! One less gully to cross on our march to the sea!”

  Those men who were able trudged up the slick eastern slope and began settling in among the many large rocks. Prydae remained in the gully, moving among the injured, offering comfort and calling for brothers of Abelle to come with their healing gemstones. He stayed with one gutted man—a boy, really, of about fifteen winters. Prydae took the boy’s hand in his own and locked stares. He could see the terror there.

  “I’m dying, my prince,” the boy gasped, blood accompanying every word out of his mouth.

  “Priests!” Prydae cried.

  “Won’t do no good,” said the boy. “Prince Prydae, are you there? Prince Prydae?”

  “I am here,” Prydae yelled at the boy, who no longer seemed to be seeing in the land of the living. Prydae clutched the hand tighter and called again, desperate to let this young warrior know that he would not die alone.

  “Oh, but it’s cold, my prince,” the boy cried. “Oh, where’d you go, then?” His hand fumbled, clasping and pulling Prydae’s. Prydae tried to call back to him, to offer some words of comfort, but his voice caught behind the lump in his throat.

  “My prince, it’s so dark and so cold. I cannot feel my feet or my arms. It’s all cold.”

  A shiver coursed Prydae’s spine.

  The boy rambled on for a short while, grabbing frantically at Prydae’s arms, while the prince tried to soothe him and tried hard not to let his voice break. Then suddenly the lad quieted, and he opened his eyes wide, his face a mask of surprise, it seemed. He gripped Prydae so tightly that the prince feared he would crush his forearm, but then that grip relented, and the boy’s hand fell away.

  A monk of Abelle arrived then, soul stone in hand. “Too late,” Prince Prydae said to him, and he placed the boy’s hand on his chest.

  The monk stared at the Prince of Pryd. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was tending another….” He started to point back along the gully, but Prydae stopped him—and when he grabbed the monk’s arm, the prince saw that his own hand was dripping with blood.

  “You could have done nothing for him anyway,” he said as if it did not matter, and in his heart, Prince Prydae knew that he could not allow it to matter. “The wound was too great.”

  “I am sorry,” said the monk, and Prydae nodded and rose. He started to walk away, but hesitated there for some time, looking at the dead boy, remembering his own past adventures a decade before, when he was more slender, when his eyes held a youthful luster, and when he thought he could conquer the whole world.

  “We lost seven more, though it could go as high as a dozen,” reported Bannagran, coming to his side. “And I am thinking that we should surrender that eastern ridge and pull back to the west, for we’re out in front of the rest of the line.”

  “The southern men did not advance?”

  “Laird Ethelbert retreated as soon as the last of the dwarves went out over the eastern ridge,” Bannagran explained.

  Prydae scanned to the west, his lips going very tight.

  “And probably wise that he did,” said Bannagran. “None of the other lairds saw fit to advance, and we’d all be sticking out like a spur begging to be clipped.”

  Prydae looked at him.

  “Those powries are not fools, my liege. They could use the same twist on us that we just used against them. Sweep in behind us and cut us from our kin.”

  Prydae looked all around and heaved a frustrated sigh. “Make sure that all the wounded and the dead are brought back behind Laird Ethelbert’s lines,” he ordered. “Then bring our charges all back to the crest north of Ethelbert. A fine fight, but no ground gained.”

  “No ground lost, either,” Bannagran reminded him, eliciting a strained smile from his friend.

  And a short-lived smile, as Prince Prydae continued to scan the rocky area. Wet, cold, and aching from head to toe, he was weary of this campaign. The combined armies of Honce had chased the powries to the coast in short order, but it had been day after day and week after week of fighting since.

  “One ridge at a time,” he muttered.

  “That was among the most daring maneuvers I have ever witnessed, Prince Prydae,” came a voice that drew both Prydae and Bannagran from their private thoughts. The two turned as one to see Laird Ethelbert walking his warhorse down toward them. He cut an impressive figure on the armored stallion, but it didn’t escape Prydae’s notice that the old man was not covered in the blood of his enemies nor in mud. Prydae had to wonder if Ethelbert had even drawn his sword. Was there a single nick along its iron edge?

  “I grow weary of advancing one ridge and then retreating to the previous,” Prydae replied.

  “Three forward and two back,” Laird Ethelbert agreed, for that was a fairly accurate assessment of their progress over the last three weeks of fighting. “But still, more than a few bloody caps met their end this day, thanks to the daring maneuver of the men from Pryd Holding.”

  “If Laird Grunyon and his men had closed from the south, more would lie dead.”

  Ethelbert shrugged. “Night is falling, and it will be a dark one. After this rout, the dwarves will not return before dawn. Take supper with me in my tent this night, my friend Prydae, and pray bring your champion with you.”

  Prydae watched the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel as he turned and casually paced his mount away. Ironically, it was exactly that steadiness and solidity that for a moment unnerved Prydae. He couldn’t dismiss the stark contrast of Ethelbert, in his shining and clean armor, so calmly walking his warhorse past the torn bodies of fallen men, some dead, others grievously wounded, some even reaching up toward him desperately. That’s what it was to be a leader among men in Honce, young Prydae decided, the godly separation between laird and peasant, between noble and common. A rare gift it was for a man to be able to shine above the mess, beyond the touch of blood and mud and rain. Laird Ethelbert then stepped his horse right over one wounded peasant and paid the man no notice at all as he went on his way.

  Ethelbert was above them, Prydae could clearly see.

  The prince thought of the boy who had just died.

  A peasant, a commoner.

  Prydae shrugged and put the boy’s dying words out of his mind.

  Prince Prydae marveled at how adept this army had become in cleaning up after bloody battles. The Samhaist clerics accompanying the force went about their work with the dead, consecrating the ground in their ancient traditions before burying men of Honce, damning the ground below the bodies of powries, which would be left unburied. All of this was done under the judgmental eyes of the brothers of Abelle, who busied themselves with the wounded, not the dead, using their magical gemstones to bring some measure of relief.

  The struggle between the two sects, a battle for the hearts of men, was not lost on Prydae. Nor were the various effects the two sects were having on the common soldiers. Those hopeful of returning home some day seemed to be favoring the brothers of Abelle, but as more and more died on the field, the Samhaists’ promises and warnings of the afterlife seemed to be resonating more profoundly among those remaining.

  Prydae looked to the west below the defended forward ridge, where screams and moans and sobs came forth continually, and he shook his head in amazement. For not far above the tents of the wounded sat a pair of Samhaists, staring down like vultures. The brothers of Abelle wouldn’t give up the corpses easily to the clerics of the ancient religion, but they were too busy with those still living to prevent the taking.

  The tug for hearts became a tug for bodies, a battle from birth that tore at every Honce citizen throughout his life, and even after, it seemed.

  Neither Prydae nor Bannagran spoke as they crossed from the forward lines to the rear. They entered Laird Ethelbert’s tent with little fanfare and, to their surprise, found none of the other lairds within.

  Ethelbert smiled widely and warmly, bidding them to enter and to sit opposite him at the opulent—relatively speaking—dinner table that had been set out. To either side
of the laird sat his four military commanders, accomplished warriors all, men whose reputations had preceded them to this war.

  “I am so pleased that you could join me, Prince of Pryd,” Ethelbert said when Prydae and Bannagran had taken their places. Attendants moved immediately to put their food—a veritable feast—before them.

  Prydae was too busy staring at the cutlery of shining silver and cut glass goblets filled with rich wine to even answer.

  “A proper laird must always take his accoutrements with him,” Ethelbert explained. “We owe that to our peasants, you see?”

  Neither of the men from Pryd questioned that aloud, though both their faces, especially Bannagran’s, asked the obvious question clearly enough.

  “What the peasants need from us is the hope that their own lives might not always be so miserable,” the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel explained. “Or that their children will know a better existence. That is always the way, do you not understand? A miserable peasant with hope is a miserable peasant placated. We walk a fine line between breaking them altogether, which would lead to open revolt, and teasing them just enough to keep them happily working.”

  “Happily?” As soon as the word left Bannagran’s mouth, Prydae jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

  But Laird Ethelbert seemed to take no offense. He grinned and held up his hands.

  “There is so much to learn about ruling the common folk,” Ethelbert said at length. “I have spent forty years as leader of Ethelbert Holding and still I feel as if my initiation has only just begun. But the people of Ethelbert are happy enough, I would guess, and healthier than those in many other holdings, Delaval in particular.”