The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

Bannagran’s hopeful nod froze when he noted, and Prydae obviously did not, that the dwarf on the ground was not quite out of the action.

  “My liege!” he screamed, and he broke ranks and charged toward him.

  Prydae never heard him. Prydae never noticed the dwarf on the ground, reaching for its spear.

  Suddenly the prince felt a fiery explosion erupting through his groin. All strength deserted him and his arms dropped and his sword fell.

  He was already falling before the nearest powrie slugged him.

  Prydae hit the ground hard, his loins torn and bloody, fires of pain coursing through his body. He knew that the powries were closing to finish him. He knew that all was lost, but there was nothing he could do.

  He had no strength even to cry out for help, his voice stolen by the crashing waves of agony.

  He saw only a blur as a large foot planted itself on the ground in front of his eyes. A hollow sound echoed through his fading senses, and only distantly did he hear Bannagran, though he was straddling his prone form, as he cried out for the men of Pryd to rally round their prince.

  Finally, Prince Prydae slipped into blackness.

  Bannagran set himself solidly, a foot on either side of the prone and unmoving prince. All around him, the men of Pryd tried to rally, but the dwarves came on in force from all sides. They smelled blood, Bannagran knew, and nothing lured a powrie more fiercely than the notion that it might get to dip its shining red beret in the blood of a victim.

  One dwarf came at Bannagran hard from the side, and he brought his weapon up to meet the charge, holding his large axe out horizontally and catching the dwarf’s axe as it chopped for him. Hands set wide on his axe handle, Bannagran jerked his weapon, hooking the dwarf’s axe under its bulky head and lifting it. The stubborn powrie didn’t let go even when the tall human brought his hands up over his head, forcing the dwarf to its tiptoes.

  Bannagran turned his weapon and shoved it out to the side, sending the dwarf into a half turn. He saw that the powrie was already winding up for a second swing as it finally managed to plant its feet, but he was the quicker, kicking the dwarf hard in the ribs and knocking it several steps away. It swung anyway, its flying weapon falling far short of the mark, and Bannagran took a step forward and stabbed straight out with his own axe’s pointed tip. Stuck, the powrie staggered away.

  But Bannagran couldn’t afford to follow and finish the task, for all around him, his men were falling.

  And there remained Prydae, lying so still.

  A roar of defiance escaped Bannagran as he set himself determinedly over his prince and began battling a pair of dwarves. He worked his axe furiously, stabbing and slashing, spinning to meet a charge from behind, and even hopping so that he dropped his feet on the opposite sides of the prone man.

  He got hit hard in the ribs but shrugged the pain away. As he spun again, his axe flying, his weapon came together with a dwarf’s axe at an awkward angle, and it rode right up the shaft. With a growl and his tremendous strength, Bannagran managed to wrest the axe from the dwarf’s hands, but he clipped his own hand on the sharp underside of the dwarf’s weapon, the blade cutting through his leather gauntlet and gashing deep into his skin.

  Bannagran ignored the angle of his pinky finger, obviously severed and hanging in the torn glove. He couldn’t afford to feel that pain at that time.

  Not now. Not with dwarves flowing about him and his men, like water breaking over rocks.

  Despite his roars of defiance and the brilliance and strength of his movements, Bannagran saw the truth. The men of Pryd could not hold back this force. Prydae was doomed, he was doomed, and all of Pryd’s army was doomed.

  He felt a twinge of regret and the guilt of failure, and he kept swinging and kept urging on his desperate companions.

  Beside him, the powries took down another of Pryd’s brave warriors and swarmed over him, chopping and stabbing, many already eagerly pulling off their berets.

  The blare of horns rent the air suddenly, freezing man and powrie alike, and as he came to understand their source, Bannagran managed a sigh of tremendous relief.

  “Ethelbert!” one Pryd man cried. “The Laird of Ethelbert is come!”

  A great thrust, turn, and sudden swing had one dwarf flying away, giving Bannagran a moment to look back over his shoulder and regard the scene. Rolling through the rocky dale to the north came the forces of Ethelbert Holding, chasing the powries before them.

  Hope suddenly renewed, Bannagran shouted to his beloved prince, “Hold strong, my liege! Our salvation is at hand! Laird Ethelbert is come!

  “Fight on, men of Pryd!” the great warrior shouted, and he followed by cleaving a dwarf’s head nearly in half. “The day is yet to be won!”

  Powries swarmed Bannagran then, and he went into a fit of battle rage, his axe swinging and stabbing. They hit him with clubs and chopped him with their fine blades and stabbed him with their fine swords, but he paid them back many times over.

  And he held his ground, his legs as solid as if rooted deep into the earth. He was only half conscious when another mass of powries came by him, but enough aware to hold his strike.

  The men of Ethelbert Holding flowed past their Pryd brethren, driving the vicious dwarves away.

  19

  The Way of Samhaine

  Thousands lined the streets of Pryd Town on the day the men came home from war. Bright banners waved and horns blew from every rooftop. Women put on their finest clothes and danced and twirled with abandon, children cried out in joy, and all the air was full of music and vibrant sound and bright colors flashing.

  Prince Prydae led the solemn procession of returning warriors. He sat astride a large roan stallion, riding somewhat gingerly but holding his shoulders proudly squared. Bannagran, with a multitude of new scars, rode beside him, but other than those two, the procession consisted of footmen alone. Dirty and ragged footmen. Men weary of war and dirt, ill nourished and battered. Men with hollow eyes that had seen too much. Men with heavy hearts that had known too much pain and too much sorrow. They and their comrades of the other holdings had driven the powries to the sea and had all but eradicated the threat of the vicious bloody-capped dwarves, but the victory had been long and costly. When Prince Prydae had ridden out of Pryd Holding three years before, he had led a column of more than three thousand men.

  Barely twelve hundred had returned, and nearly half of those carrying wounds that would follow them for the rest of their miserable lives.

  Still, as the procession entered the southernmost stretch of the town and became almost immediately engulfed in the sounds and sights of the cheering throng, to a man they found their spirits lifted, and Prince Prydae rode a bit straighter in the saddle, and Bannagran managed a smile.

  They continued their march through the town and toward the castle, where Prydae would be formally crowned as laird of Pryd Holding within the week. Couriers had told the prince of the death of his father; at the rear of the battlefield, Laird Ethelbert had even held a memorial for the lost Laird Pryd and a celebration for Prydae.

  But Prydae hadn’t yet been able to properly mourn his loss, and so his heart remained heavy as he moved along the road, despite the cheering and the dancing. These were his people now; this was his holding now.

  He felt a twinge down low, an uncomfortable reminder that he would quite possibly be the last of his bloodline to hold the title of laird.

  Prydae winced, and not from the pain.

  “Are you all right, my liege?” asked Bannagran at his side, and Prydae realized that he had let his discomfort show on his face.

  “It is all the same, yet all so different,” he replied.

  Bannagran nodded. “After the sights of war, it is indeed.”

  Even as he started to answer, Prydae’s attention was caught by the spectacle of a young boy off to the side of the road up ahead. He was dancing, or moving at least, in an awkward manner, his head lolling from side to side, spittle glistening on his face. A man long in y
ears, but still looking quite solid, sat on the ground beside him, obviously trying to calm him.

  But the boy was clearly taken with the excitement and seemed on the very edge of losing control as he flailed about, cheering, or trying to, for the Prince of Pryd. Prydae made eye contact with the curious creature, and it seemed as if that link almost drew the boy forward as the prince walked his stallion by.

  The boy staggered out; the man overseeing him tried to grab him, but the stiff-legged creature staggered forward suddenly out of the man’s reach. The youngster lurched out into the road, arms flailing, legs striding this way and that without apparent control.

  Prydae’s expression turned to one of horror as the creature stumbled against the flank of his horse, against his own leg. He instinctively pulled his foot from the stirrup and kicked out hard, sending the boy staggering back.

  “Control that beast!” the horrified prince said to the man who scrambled out to grab at the poor boy.

  “Pardon, my laird,” the man stammered. “We beg your pardon. He did not mean…”

  Prydae wasn’t even listening, and just marched his horse along.

  A soldier from the ranks behind him rushed out and roughly pushed the man and the boy back from the road, both of them going facedown in the mud. Most of the nearby onlookers laughed, though one woman and a young girl hurried to the side of the fallen pair.

  “My people, oh, joy,” Prydae said to Bannagran. “The pleasure of lairds to suffer the likes of the peasant rabble.” Had the prince been watching the continuing drama along the roadside with any real interest, where the woman and girl were helping the strange creature, he might have felt a flicker of recognition. That particular woman, after all, was the first woman he had seen executed.

  Bannagran laughed at Prydae’s sarcasm, taking it as a sign that his prince was feeling a bit better.

  Prince Prydae wasn’t surprised to see Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais waiting for him inside the castle—though he had hoped that the old wretch Jerak would already have gone to his grave. Rennarq, lean and sharp as ever, sat at the front of the throne room in a seat set just to the side of the throne, as was the custom; and Bernivvigar, yet another remnant of a past age, stood nearby, tall and straight as always.

  “My prince,” Rennarq said as Prydae and Bannagran swept into the room. The old man pulled himself from the chair swiftly and bowed low. “Heavy are our hearts with grief at the loss of your father.”

  Prydae’s eyes darted from man to man, finally settling on Bathelais. “Old men die,” he said. “It is the way of things.” In light of that comment, the fact that the other three awaiting Prydae were all well past their seventieth birthday was obviously not lost on Bathelais.

  “We are glad that you have returned to us, warrior prince,” Bathelais remarked. “Greater is Pryd Holding now that the line of Pryd is restored.”

  Prydae managed to hide the smirk that wanted to leap onto his face as he regarded Rennarq’s slight scowl.

  “The line of Pryd?” Prydae asked of Bathelais. “And how eternal shall that line be, pray tell?”

  An uncomfortable moment passed between them all, with the two monks of Abelle looking nervously at each other and Rennarq looking at Prydae, his gaze inevitably lowering, then going to the floor and his own feet.

  Yes, they knew, Prydae reasoned. Of course they did, for the monks at the front lines would have spread word far and wide of the battlefield casualty, that the gelded prince of Pryd would likely sire no children.

  Off to the far side, Bernivvigar dared to chuckle, and all eyes turned to him.

  Prydae felt Bannagran tense suddenly, and he half expected the man to leap over and throttle the impudent Samhaist.

  “To put your faith in the trickery of the upstarts is to invite disaster,” old Bernivvigar cackled, and Prydae shot a look at the two monks of Abelle.

  “Our brethren have saved many lives at the front,” Father Jerak protested. “Prince Prydae’s among them.”

  “Limited miracles, then?” Bernivvigar replied. “An interesting concept.”

  “And what shall the Samhaists offer Prince Prydae beyond your clever insults?” Brother Bathelais charged.

  Prydae could hardly believe that these men were vying so, right in front of him, and daring to speak of him as if he weren’t even there. Rather than interrupt, the prince let them go on a bit more. It seemed obvious to him that the tension between the competing religions had heightened of late, as was logical, given the monumental changes in the land and the desperate and competing work of both Samhaist cleric and monk of Abelle at the battlefield.

  “We shall see,” Bernivvigar replied to Bathelais, and he offered a look to Prydae then, designed obviously to give the prince some ray of hope.

  “My pardon, my prince, who is soon to be rightful laird of Pryd,” Father Jerak interjected; and he stepped in front of Bathelais and fixed him with a scowl that silenced him. “The brothers of Blessed Abelle have prayed for you every day. We are pleased that your life was saved but sorrowful for your loss, which is a loss to all the lands of Honce. We have done all that we could, and will continue our efforts on your behalf. A collective of our most powerful brothers, with the soul stones of the greatest godly energy, can be called together at any time. Many would make the pilgrimage to the aid of Prince Prydae, no doubt, perhaps even some of our masters from Chapel Abelle.”

  “Though you know that you can do nothing,” Bernivvigar immediately interjected. “Would you stretch out hope indefinitely to avoid the inevitable realization by Prince Prydae that there really is nothing your church has to offer him?”

  “Perhaps you would do well to hold your tongue, old Samhaist,” Father Jerak snapped back with uncharacteristic sharpness.

  “I have held several tongues,” Bernivvigar replied, and he brought forth his hand, palm up. “Cut from the mouths of undeserving fools, muting them so that others could be given back lost voices.”

  It took a moment for that remark, that notion of Samhaist doctrine which often used sacrifice for supposed medical purposes, to truly sink into Prince Prydae; and when he fixed Bernivvigar with a serious look, the old Samhaist merely offered him a meaningful stare.

  “Father Jerak,” Prydae began, still staring hard at Bernivvigar, “I am not without gratitude for the work of your brethren out on the battlefield. Surely I would have expired had it not been for them. Rest easy here, I pray you, and know that the brothers of Abelle showed themselves well in the east. Let us end this useless bickering.”

  “Yes, my liege,” said Jerak.

  “We have other matters to attend,” Rennarq cut in. “Prince—Laird Prydae should be crowned within the week. The event will heighten the celebration of our glorious victory over the bloody caps! Their scourge is lifted from the land, and never again will the men of Honce have to fear powrie raiders along our roads.”

  That last remark had Prydae and Bannagran exchanging looks, for it wasn’t quite true. Victory in the east had been substantial, and the blood of thousands of powries stained the coastal rocks and had turned the tides red for many days. But Laird Ethelbert and Laird Delaval, the two men truly in charge of Honce’s arrayed forces, had stopped short of eliminating the powries altogether. And both Bannagran and Prydae knew well that it was not because of battle weariness and not because the two lairds simply could not have pressed farther. No, the decision to allow the powries some escape had been a calculated one, as almost all the lairds at the front had learned. The powrie threat had to be kept at a minimum to allow for trade and for the coming consolidations the two great lairds planned. But at the same time, the powrie threat had to remain, at the edges of awareness, so that all the lairds of the land could keep their people properly afraid of the world beyond their borders. With tales of powries and goblins lurking in the forests, the peasants would not question the demands of their protector lairds.

  “You may leave us,” Prydae said to the monks, and he pointedly turned to Bernivvigar and add
ed, “but you stay a bit longer.”

  The old Samhaist bowed and flashed a superior look Father Jerak’s way. Brother Bathelais muttered as if intending to protest the slight, but Father Jerak silenced him with an upraised hand.

  “It is good that the brothers of Blessed Abelle were able to save your life, good prince,” Father Jerak offered to Prydae as he shuffled past. “An empty place would be Pryd Holding without the proud son of Laird Pryd.”

  Prydae didn’t respond, other than to offer a quick nod.

  “We have much to attend to, my laird-in-waiting,” Rennarq remarked, and Prydae stared at him as if listening, but the door had barely closed behind the departing monks when Prydae turned away from the old laird-guest to focus on Bernivvigar.

  “You speak of the sacrifice of a tongue to restore the voice of another.”

  “Indeed, it has been done,” Bernivvigar answered. “Other sacrifices have not been so successful, of course.”

  “To what does this apply?”

  “To anything, if the sacrifice is appealing to the Ancient Ones. I have seen men slaughtered so that others could rise up from their graves. I have seen eyes plucked out to make more worthy blind men see.”

  Prydae lowered his head and sighed.

  “As for your…infirmity,” Bernivvigar said tactfully. “You fear that you are the end of the line of Pryd.”

  “There is little left to dissuade me from the conclusion,” Prydae admitted.

  “Castrating another might bring relief, depending on the extent of your injuries and depending upon the whims of the Ancient Ones.”

  “The whims?”

  “That is the way of the gods, my laird,” Bernivvigar answered. “Among men you stand tall. Among the folk of Pryd Holding, you are practically a god yourself. But among the Ancient Ones, we are all rather small.”

  Prydae paused and considered the words for a moment. He licked his lips and glanced over at Bannagran, who nodded. “What would we have to do?” the soon-to-be-laird asked.