The Highwayman sotfk-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Let us press on."

  "We risk leaving our support behind," Bannagran warned.

  "To the east a bit, but then north," Prydae explained. "Let us turn the end of the line so that the powries cannot flee around us."

  Bannagran looked back to the battlefield in the north, across the broken and rocky terrain. All seemed quiet in the east, after all, and the day's fighting was not half done.

  Prydae clapped him on the shoulder once more. "You take half our charges and move straight north in support of the men of Laird Ethelbert. I will hold your eastern flank with the other half."

  Bannagran fixed him with a knowing stare.

  "I will spread my forces out in a secure line north to south," Prydae promised, "to ensure that I am not flanked." He clapped Bannagran once again and moved off, calling his men to order. "The daring young Prince of Pryd," Laird Ethelbert remarked when one of his commanders brought news of the unexpected northward curl of the army of Pryd Holding. "Ever out in front is that one."

  "The powries break before his ranks," said the commander. "The men of Pryd have marked themselves well."

  "Yes, particularly Prydae's large friend. One victory after another for the men of Pryd." Ethelbert smiled as he considered his own words. He wasn't jealous of Prydae's gains; quite the contrary: Ethelbert figured that Prydae's reputation would serve him well when he annexed Pryd Holding into the greater kingdom of Ethelbert, opposing Delaval. Though they remained far in the north, the men of Delaval had no doubt heard of Prydae's exploits here. What might their reaction be if Laird Delaval, attempting to take all of Honce for himself, ordered them into battle against the daring and cunning young prince and his soon-to-be-legendary champion?

  "Tell your men to take the valor of Pryd Holding as their example," Ethelbert instructed his commanders. "Let us press forward as Prydae and his forces seal the trap. The more powries we kill now, the fewer we will have to kill later. Perhaps this day will mark the end of our troubles.

  "So valiantly, one and all of Ethelbert!" the laird cried loudly. "The completion of our task lies before us this day, and the road home is at hand!"

  With cheers reverberating along the line, the men of Ethelbert Holding charged forward against the fierce dwarves. Their advance inspired those armies of the lesser holdings flanking them to fight on more courageously.

  Laird Ethelbert shifted his gaze from his own men to the army of Pryd, who were forming a line east to west, up one side of a ridge and down the other. Still the powries broke before them as they made their way north.

  Ethelbert wondered if he might be watching the champion he would name as heir to Ethelbert Holding. The powries continued to break ranks and flee, and the men of Pryd, led by their new champion, Bannagran, eagerly gave chase. Even those at the end of the line looked ahead more than behind as they swept along the ridge line.

  Which was exactly what the powries had anticipated.

  Standing in the center of the two lines, Prydae clearly saw the first signs of the counterattack. Powries leaped up from concealment in the rocks and pressed against the trailing edges of the Pryd line.

  "Turn, lads! Close up the line!" he cried. "Hold, Bannagran! Tighten the ranks!" As he shouted, Prydae moved south along his trailing forces, and each step more clearly revealed to him the urgency of the situation. For this was no disorganized and desperate maneuver by the dwarves. The prince had to wonder if all his army's gains that morning had been but illusion. Had the powries allowed him, even enticed him along on his sudden push?

  There was no time for Prydae to stop and think about it, for the fight was on at the southernmost end of the line, his soldiers already sorely pressed by a score of dirty dwarves. Into their midst charged the valiant prince, his sword ringing hard against a powrie weapon.

  He turned the powrie blade and, with a burst of rage, leaped forward and struck hard, driving his sword deep into powrie flesh. He cried out to bolster his men; but it was hardly necessary, for his presence alone had already stabilized their defense and solidified their determination. Not a man broke ranks and ran.

  For a moment, the powrie attack seemed to waver, as several dwarves fell, and others shied from the sudden presence of the mighty prince. But then came further proof to Prydae that this was not an improvisation by the bloody caps; for the second wave came on the length of the Pryd line, locking his men into place as they tried to reinforce the weakness along their ranks. And from the south and west, behind Prydae and his men, came a second group of dwarves, howling and hungry; and some already seemed to reach for their berets, as if the spilling of human blood was inevitable.

  Prydae batted aside one thrusting sword, then backhanded to clip off the head of a spear. Then he ducked to avoid a second spear, thrown from somewhere in the rear ranks of dwarves. Acting purely on instinct now, Prydae roared encouragement to his men and forced himself to press on. For he knew that to run was to die, that the dwarves had them caught, whatever the outcome might be. And he knew that without his example many men would turn and run and that would spell doom for them all.

  "Hold strong!" he yelled, parrying another sword blow, then thrusting forward to send a powrie spinning down in pain. "Fight them, I tell you! Hold strong! Bannagran!"

  Above all the turmoil, Bannagran heard his prince's call. He brought his axe high to intercept an overhand chop by one dwarf, then stepped in, his sheer strength forcing the powrie's axe over its head. He gave a sudden jerk, throwing the powrie off balance, then caught the dwarf by the front of its shirt and lifted it into the air.

  "Bannagran!" Prydae called again in desperate tones, and the mighty warrior threw the dwarf back into its fellows, forcing that entire section of the powrie line backward just a bit-enough for him to turn and locate his prince amid the confusion of the melee.

  The huge man winced as Prydae swiveled away from one thrust and barely pushed a second spear aside. Bannagran's hopes soared for an instant, when Prydae not only intercepted a third blade but also suddenly turned and sprang forward, his sword taking down one of a trio of powries. The prince landed in perfect balance and began to fend against the remaining two.

  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 ov
er 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 years, 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 i
nside 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."