The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Truly,” the Highwayman went on. “I do admire one who has found a way to so easily steal that which he desires. It shows cunning and efficiency, I think.”

  “Steal? Bah, I’m no thief! This is the laird’s business and none of my own.”

  “Laird Prydae bids you to eat your booty?”

  The man laughed. “Get yourself gone, and be quick. I’ve no time to suffer a fool. You interfere with the laird’s tax collectors on penalty of death.”

  “Oh, but I am already so marked,” the Highwayman said, and he dropped from the tree, landing a few paces in front of the soldier. The man fell back a step, surprised.

  “Do you not know who I am?” the Highwayman asked. He drew out the sword that had recently been hanging in the private quarters of Laird Prydae, the sword that had incited a search of the whole town.

  “You!” the soldier cried.

  “Curiously said,” replied the Highwayman. “Could I not claim the same of you?”

  “You’re…you’re him!”

  “Again, my point holds.”

  “You come with me!” the soldier demanded. “In the name of Laird Prydae, I arrest you!” He dropped the sack and presented his sword in a menacing manner.

  The Highwayman suppressed a chuckle and instead backed off a cautious step.

  “Come on, then,” said the soldier. “I’ve been fighting in the south for a year now and think nothing of cutting you up.”

  The Highwayman glanced around as if he meant to run away. The soldier, predictably, rushed ahead, the tip of his sword barely inches from the Highwayman’s chest.

  “Now!” he said with a growl. “Last chance to surrender before I run you through.”

  The Highwayman sighed, feigning fright, and presented his sword horizontally before him. When the soldier reached for the offered blade, the Highwayman tossed it up into the air.

  The soldier’s eyes followed the ascent.

  A right cross from the Highwayman staggered him backward, tumbling to his knees.

  The Highwayman caught his blade as it fell and leaped forward in a spin, whacking the soldier’s feebly presented sword across, then rolling behind the blade and up the man’s arm, timing his turn perfectly so that he could drive his left elbow into the side of the man’s face. He felt the soldier’s sudden halt and reversal, and he dropped as the man cut a fast backhand, the short sword whipping above his head.

  And the Highwayman came up fast, inside the soldier’s reach, bringing the tip of his sword under the soldier’s chin and forcing the man up on his tiptoes.

  “I will hear your sword hit the ground, or I will hear the last breath of your life,” the Highwayman calmly stated, and he inched his sword up just a bit to accentuate his point.

  The short sword fell to the dirt beside them.

  Up came the Highwayman’s knee into the soldier’s groin, as the Highwayman retracted his blade and stepped back. Again he spun, a foot flying to smash the lurching, bending man’s jaw, sending him falling to the side and to the ground.

  “The first rule of battle is to know your enemy,” he explained, though the man was far from hearing him, or anything, at that moment. “The second is to prepare the battlefield. And the third, one you apparently have not read, my sleeping friend, is to make certain that your enemy thinks that you are less formidable than you are.”

  The man stirred and groaned and pulled himself up to his elbows and shook his head.

  “Although I admit, such a tactic would be difficult to present, for one of your lack of skill.”

  The man growled.

  “But you have learned, perhaps. I suppose that if we meet again, you will not be so easily deceived,” the Highwayman said to him. “On that occasion, regretfully, I will likely have to kill you.” He ended by putting his foot on the soldier’s shoulder blades and stamping the man flat to the ground, adding the warning, “Of course, if you stubbornly persist now, we will never meet again in this lifetime.”

  Sometime later, the naked soldier, his arms twisted and bound behind his back with his own torn clothing, a tight gag tied in place, stumbled to the front gates of Castle Pryd.

  Sometime later, the peasant woman found a cache of food inside the one small window of her house, as did several of her equally hungry neighbors.

  Sometime after that, a voice awakened Cadayle. When she went to the window to investigate, she saw a bright smile below a black silk mask.

  “Here, eat well with your mother this evening,” the Highwayman said to her, and he handed in a worn sack of food.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I met with one of Laird Prydae’s thugs,” the Highwayman explained. “The laird has enough to eat, I think.”

  “You stole?”

  “Well, it sounds harsh when you speak it in like that. I prefer to think of it as seeing to the laird’s flock in the name of Prydae himself, and representing his better and more generous side.”

  Cadayle rubbed a bit of the sleepiness out of her eyes and took the offered food, then glanced back into the darkness of her small house. “If we are caught with this…” she started to warn.

  “Then eat it!” came the easy answer. “Laird Prydae’s men cannot see into your belly, now can they?”

  “You play a dangerous game.”

  “That makes it more fun.”

  He finished with another wide and bright smile, and added only, “Eat well, beautiful Cadayle!” before he spun away from the window and disappeared into the night.

  She pressed the food close to her breast, and she could feel the excited flutter of her heart.

  The Highwayman danced away through the shadows, spinning his sword and leaping into battle against imaginary foes. He knew not why he had acted as a thief this night, knew not why he had suddenly taken this more dangerous fork in the road. But he couldn’t deny the lightness of his step, the rush of blood throughout his body, or the thrill of his mischief.

  Yes, he knew, he was the Highwayman, who defended the woman he loved, who took back his mother’s stolen sword, and who, it now seemed, would not suffer the unfairness of Prydae’s rules.

  The image of gratitude on the faces of those he had fed this night was better than wine as he danced his way across Pryd Town and back to the quiet chapel.

  29

  Almost Honest

  “All the town speaks of him,” Prydae said, grinding his teeth with every word. He moved to the hearth and roughly threw a log onto the fire, for autumn was in the air, the wind chill and from the north.

  More than a month had passed since the theft of his precious sword, which was now being used weekly—at least weekly—by the outlaw Highwayman, usually in stealing from Prydae’s tax collectors and even some of his soldiers. The lone bandit was striking haphazardly, without any discernable pattern. Every time, he seemed to simply appear out of the darkness, quickly dispatch of any offered defenses—and thus far in a nonlethal, though usually painful, manner—take what booty he could, and melt away back into the night.

  “They exult in the glory and cunning of the Highwayman!” Prydae growled.

  “Not openly,” said Bannagran, standing across the room and stripping off his cloak and wet boots.

  “No, and that is all the more troubling. He is feeding them, you know. He is taking the requisitioned food from lawful collectors and distributing it among the peasants.”

  “We do not know that, my liege. And if we find any such evidence, rest assured that the offending peasant will be punished.”

  “You know that he is doing that!” Laird Prydae retorted, turning sharply on his friend.

  Bannagran shrugged, not arguing.

  “This…this miscreant, this common thief, becomes a hero among the people by throwing them a few scraps of food. And these disloyal dogs fall for the ploy. How fickle is their allegiance!”

  “Times are difficult for the common folk, my liege,” Bannagran reminded as he took a seat and began to rub his sore feet. “So many are off to
the south, never to return, and our demands sorely press those remaining. Many families are headed now by the mother alone, without even an older son to help her in the fields.”

  “Laird Delaval presses me hard,” Prydae argued.

  “They have little to eat.”

  “They have as much as our warriors battling Ethelbert in the south!” shouted the Laird of Pryd. “Should I deny food and clothing to men spilling their blood so that these peasants, hungry though they are, might live more comfortably?”

  “I am not arguing, my liege, but merely trying to explain why this Highwayman creature has so easily found the hearts of many.”

  “I want him caught.” The words were accompanied by another crash as Prydae threw a second log into the fireplace. “I want him dragged to the castle and burned alive.”

  “The people will frown upon you,” Bannagran warned, and it occurred to both men that Bannagran was the only man in the world who could have so bluntly said that to Laird Prydae.

  “Upon me?” the laird asked. “Nay, the execution of this one will fall to our Abelle brothers, or to Bernivvigar, if not them. Either way, he will die.”

  “Deservedly so.”

  “Prince Yeslnik, favored nephew of Laird Delaval, is on his way,” Prydae said. “Double the scouts upon the road and send patrols of the castle guard out to the ends of Pryd Town each night. Offer a reward for any whispers that lead us to this knave. We must put an end to this before the legend of the man grows and before Laird Delaval comes to know that we harbor such a secret.”

  Bannagran kept his expression impassive as Laird Prydae fell into the chair across from him, drawing a curious stare from his liege.

  “What?” Prydae asked.

  A slight smile turned up the corners of Bannagran’s mouth.

  “What?” Prydae asked again, before he took the cue from his friend and managed a smile of his own, which kept widening and became a burst of laughter that Bannagran shared.

  “You are right, my friend,” said the laird. “He is one man, one prickly thorn, that we shall pluck and discard soon enough.”

  “He strikes in the dark, from behind and by surprise, and against men ill prepared to defeat him. We learn from his every attack, and we will become better prepared.”

  Prydae took a deep breath and settled more comfortably in his chair.

  “What will Yeslnik Delaval ask of us?” Bannagran inquired.

  “More food, more gold, more iron, and more men, likely,” Prydae answered. “The fighting in the south has not let up at all, and there is word that Laird Delaval has sent warriors to support the people of Palmaristown and their battle against the wild tribes of the north and west.”

  “He should focus his strength against Ethelbert first, and drive the man back before offering any truce,” Bannagran reasoned. “This has gone on far too long already.”

  “Would that he would,” Prydae agreed, and he went silent and turned back to the hearth, which had flared to life, hungrily eating the two new logs.

  Bannagran folded his large and calloused hands behind his head, stretched his legs before him, wriggling his cold toes near the flames, and said no more.

  Cadayle walked along the road to her house one dark night, her stride easy and her posture showing that she was unafraid. That calm demeanor was not unnoticed by the people in the neighboring houses, most of whom dared not venture outside after dark.

  For the young woman, her own realization that she was unafraid struck her suddenly. Bandits were all around the roads of Pryd, and powries had been seen in several areas—one group had attacked some men not far from this very area. But Cadayle knew that she was not alone.

  A small sack plopped to the ground before her, hitting with the jingle of coins. It fell open and an apple, shiny even in the starlight, rolled out.

  Cadayle looked up to the tree, to see a now-familiar and not unexpected figure sitting astride a low branch, leaning back against the trunk.

  “You should not be out after dark,” said the Highwayman. “You never know what knaves might find you and ravish you.”

  Cadayle blushed, and was glad of the darkness.

  The Highwayman, though he was at least fifteen feet up, swung his leg over the branch and dropped down, landing easily, knees bending to absorb the impact. He stood up straight before Cadayle, his smile wide—as it always seemed to be when he was with her.

  “Well, are you not going to accept my gifts?” he asked, and he bent down and retrieved the bag and the apple. His grin became mischievous when he stood back up, and he held the apple out toward her, then pulled it back and took a large bite of it when she reached for it.

  Then he offered it once more.

  Cadayle put her hands on her hips and stared at him defiantly.

  “You’ll not share your ill-gotten goods with the man who ill got them for you?” the wounded Highwayman asked.

  Cadayle couldn’t resist, her expression brightening, and she took the apple and the sack. She looked inside the bag, confirming her suspicions when she noted the glisten of shiny coins among the remaining food.

  “Money?” she asked.

  “I have no need of it.”

  “If I go to market and spend it, I will draw suspicion. No one has extra coins, with Laird Prydae’s tax collectors all about. Not unless they are hiding it from the laird, and that is not wise.”

  “People spend money in the market every day,” the Highwayman replied with a shrug.

  “But not so much.”

  “Then spend it a bit at a time. Buy something for your mother.”

  Cadayle paused and smiled, then lowered her arm to her side and lowered her gaze. A moment later, she looked back at the Highwayman. “Why do you do this?”

  “Do what?” he replied. “You need the food, so I give it to you.”

  “No, I mean, why do you do all of this?” Cadayle clarified. “You live in the shadows of the night. What of the day?”

  “I am alive every day.”

  Cadayle blew a frustrated sigh. “Do you serve with Laird Prydae’s garrison? Are you a farmer? Did you fight in the war?”

  “Are you an agent for the laird?”

  Again she sighed and declared, “You’re impossible.”

  “Not so, my lady. I am here.” He dipped a polite bow.

  “The laird is not happy with you.”

  “I would not expect him to be. In fact, I would be disappointed if I learned that he was.”

  Cadayle was about to remark that the soldiers were everywhere, it seemed, but the point was made for her with the sound of horses coming down the road behind them. Before she could react, the Highwayman grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her from the road, the two of them rolling into the depression off to the side.

  And not a moment too soon, Cadayle realized as a trio of soldiers came galloping past. Alarmed, she looked at the Highwayman—to see him smiling and to hear his laugh.

  “The laird is not happy with me,” he said with a grin. “I thought it best that you not be seen speaking with me.”

  Cadayle started to respond, but suddenly realized how close she was to this man, their bodies intertwined, his breath warm on her face. He, too, seemed suddenly caught up in the moment, and Cadayle wondered if he would kiss her.

  And she realized that she hoped he would.

  But he didn’t. He rose and helped her up, then brushed himself off as she did likewise.

  “Why do you do this?” she asked him again.

  He stared at her for a long while, his face sober, his eyes, so dark and sparkling, locked onto her. “Because it is right.”

  Cadayle had no idea of how to take the conversation from there. Because it is right. She rolled those words over and over in her mind. She had heard many of her neighbors say such things, had even seen a few of them do such things on occasion. But never, in all her life, had Cadayle heard or seen that particular concept expressed by a man in power.

  Because it is right. So simple, and
so elusive.

  “Sleep well this night, my lady,” the Highwayman said. “Dare I hope that you might dream of me?”

  The bold question had Cadayle back on her heels, but as it was accompanied by one of the man’s typical sassy smiles, she let it go with a grin of her own.

  He took her hand and kissed it, then bowed to her and danced away, leaping into the night and disappearing.

  This was how it usually had gone between them over these last few weeks and their few encounters. Was that the real reason she had offered to take some eggs to a neighbor for her mother, and then tarried with the neighbors before heading home after darkness had fallen? Had she been hoping to see the Highwayman again? She knew the truth of it, of course—and was finding it harder and harder to deny that truth to herself—for Cadayle found herself thinking of the man more and more.

  And as he had boldly asked, she was indeed dreaming of him.

  Because it is right.

  The words followed Bransen, too, as he made his way across the town and back to Chapel Pryd. It had been a good answer, he knew, and one that had certainly seemed to impress Cadayle.

  But was it true?

  Bransen chewed his lip as he considered that. The teachings of the Jhesta Tu demanded introspection and honest self-evaluation, and the Book of Jhest had shown him many techniques to strip away the inevitable defenses that any person would construct against such painful personal intrusion.

  Bransen studied his feelings honestly. He recalled how he felt during all his actions these last weeks as the Highwayman. He knew, and came to understand even more with every step, that his efforts weren’t quite as magnanimous as he had made them seem with that answer.

  There was the matter of his pride.

  There was the matter of his love for Cadayle.

  Yes, he felt proud when he rescued someone from bandit, powrie, or tax collector alike, or when he saw the smile of gratitude on the face of a peasant after the heroic Highwayman had offered some food to quell the grumbling of his belly. He knew that pride was a failing—the Book of Jhest often referred to it as the downfall of great men—but there it was.