The Dame sotfk-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  “What direction?” shouted another from the tree above the first to fall.

  A second arrow cracked into the wood at that location, a perfect shot that pinned the speaker’s hand to the branch.

  “Down! Down!” the man in the next tree yelled. “To the northwest!” He leaped to the ground beside his fallen friend.

  “And here!” Bransen added, springing into their midst. Swords rose against him, but he was already past their range, rushing between the men and turning as he went, cutting a downward stroke across the back of one man’s legs. The second man cried out and thrust at him, but Bransen’s powerful blade picked off that thrust with enough force to send the sword flying from the man’s hands.

  He wouldn’t have been able to do anything with his weapon anyway, for Bransen, far too fast for him, sent his fine sword slashing across, but purposely high of the mark. The man yelped and instinctively ducked, and Bransen continued his sword’s movement, turning around and stepping forward. He threw his left arm up high as he spun, still coming forward. His elbow hit the man hard in the nose, shattering it and snapping his head back. Bransen planted as the man recoiled and hit him with a vicious right cross, pommel in hand.

  This time the man’s head snapped to the side. He staggered only a step before falling face down with a groan.

  Bransen paid him no heed, knowing the man to be out of the fight. He turned instead on the man he had slashed, still standing exactly as Bransen had left him, reaching back to grasp his torn leg. Two steps brought Bransen directly behind him. He stepped again to gain momentum, then leaped and laid flat out, his legs tucked tight.

  His double kick sent the man flying to the ground. Bransen, too, fell flat, and a pair of arrows soared past above him. He landed lightly and sprang back up just as the man Jameston had shot in the hand dropped to the ground before him. His right hand bloody and tucked in tight, he brandished a dagger, waving it frantically at Bransen, grimacing in pain with every movement.

  “You would make me kill you?” Bransen asked, punctuating his question with a sudden thrust that left the tip of his sword resting under the man’s chin.

  The man gave a little squeal, and his dagger fell to the ground.

  Bransen dove away, another arrow coming at his position. The knife man cried out and stumbled away. Bransen let him go, focusing instead on the two archers who had a bead on his position.

  One archer, he corrected silently, as Jameston’s next arrow took one through the upper arm. He fell onto the branch and managed to hold tight. To Bransen’s relief, the second man turned and let fly to the northwest. He sent off another arrow, ducking as one cracked into the tree by his face.

  Bransen let it go, leaving the man to Jameston, as three more men appeared directly across the road and coming hard for Bransen, two brandishing shields and swords, the third a shield and bronze-tipped spear.

  “I arrest you, Highwayman!” one cried.

  Bransen met their charge with one of his own and hit them with a barrage of thrusts and slashes, his Jhesta Tu sword slamming against bronze shields, slapping against one sword then the other, severing the spear tip when his opponent stubbornly brought it back to bear. He leaped and rushed left and right, sword working every step as he moved to defeat the integrity of their line, to push them apart enough so that he could get between them.

  But these were not simple peasants seeking a bounty. They had obviously known battle and carried the scars of many fights. Still the Highwayman of fame kept all three on their heels with his speed and side-to-side movements, his sword finding any opening they presented or just slashing hard against a shield, digging deep grooves.

  He slid to the right in fast steps, stabbing hard to make the man on that flank fall back, then went to the left, flipping the blade to his left hand and stabbing with equal precision and speed.

  Bransen cut the second course short with a sudden stop and complete turn, tossing the sword to his right hand. The three men skidded to their own short stops. Bransen used the moment to heed the call of his brooch, though he knew not what it was saying. Driven by some subconscious thought, he thrust his arm and the blade high to his right and felt the ruby tip of the brooch tingle.

  His opponents widened their eyes in obvious shock and fell back in unison.

  Bransen heard the crackling and managed to glance up at his blade.

  At the flames dancing about the carved silverel blade.

  Grinning, he slashed the sword down and across. The defenders exaggerated their dodges, trying to stay far from the fiery weapon. Using those wild and erratic movements against them, Bransen slashed left at one man, then back at the man standing to his left. Both yelped and faded far from danger, opening the path the Highwayman sought.

  Bransen jumped between them, his brooch screamed new possibilities. He grabbed the half spear of the man to his left, neutralizing any immediate attacks, and sent his sword in a down and around parry at the sword coming at him to his left. He caught the blade with his own and continued his movement, sending both weapons up high, then turned and snapped off a succession of quick elbow smashes above the off-balance man’s shield, cracking him one, two, three in the face.

  The spearman bull-rushed from the right, or started to, but Bransen quickly let go of his spear, planted his hand against the leading shield, and let the power of the brooch flow through him. Before he even realized what he had done, he noted the spearman flying backward, as if he had been thrown from a catapult. The man landed hard on his feet but staggered back a couple of quick steps and fell to his bum, where he sat, scorched shield before him, hair dancing wildly at its ends, a confused and dazed look in his unfocused eyes.

  Bransen spun fast to see the swordsman he had elbowed rolling on the ground, the one remaining foe coming in hard.

  Again the Highwayman invoked the power of his new brooch, and the attacker stopped suddenly and turned, slashing with abandon. He kept on, fighting as if against some unseen demon.

  Jameston walked up to Bransen and looked at the swordsman with puzzlement, then back to Bransen. The Highwayman merely shrugged, took a step forward to the side of the fighter, tapped him on the shoulder, and when the man finally glanced his way, smashed him hard in the nose with the pommel of his sword.

  “What was that about?” Jameston asked.

  Bransen pointed to the tip of the brooch holding the smoky quartz, the gemstone of illusion. “I guess his eyes were crossed,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

  Jameston shook his head and sighed. “Gather them that aren’t dead and disarm them,” he instructed.

  Bransen started to round up the rogues, slapping them up to the road with his sword, when he noticed the first man Jameston had shot in the gut curled on the ground, groaning softly.

  “That one’s near dead,” Jameston explained, leading two more from across the way, one with an arrow halfway through his bicep, the other leaning on him and limping badly with two arrows stuck deep into the back of one leg.

  “Watch them,” Bransen said, rushing past Jameston to the mortally wounded man. He eased the man onto his back, wincing at the gruesome sight, the arrow deep into the man’s belly, his guts all torn up.

  “Shh,” Bransen soothed him, putting one hand up to his brooch and setting the other firmly on the man’s stomach, the arrow shaft tight against the crook between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Shh,” he said again, sending waves of healing energy into the man, almost anesthetizing him with a blast of concentrated warmth.

  Bransen yanked the arrow out, the man howling in agony. The others cried out in surprise. Bransen held the wounded man down and put his hand immediately back to the ghastly wound. Gradually, the injured rogue eased to lie flat and his breathing improved. Many heartbeats passed, Bransen holding the pose, continuing the flow of healing magic. He found the man’s line of ki-chi-kree fluctuating wildly; he used the connection of the soul stone to coax it back to straight. Drawing some of the man’s agony into himself, Brans
en winced and clenched his jaw.

  After many minutes, the man’s ki-chi-kree finally settled. Bransen leaned over him and whispered into his ear, “The Highwayman is not your enemy.” Repeating it a couple of times, Bransen straightened on his knees and turned to regard Jameston and the prisoners.

  “The Highwayman is not your enemy!” he proclaimed. “Now be quick and get your friend to a warm bed. Care for him, and he will live.” Bransen leaped to his feet and walked back toward the group.

  “Go on, then,” Jameston said above them. “And go fast, before I slip with this bowstring and put one of you down to the dirt!”

  They scrambled at that, past Bransen, who seemed not to notice.

  “Good choice,” Jameston said to him as he approached.

  “I couldn’t let him die.”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  “He didn’t know any better. But now…”

  “Now what? Now you don’t know, and the whole group might come back at us in a day or two.”

  “You said it was a good choice,” Bransen protested.

  Jameston grinned slyly. “Yep. And I think I figured out why that pretty Cadayle fell in love with you.”

  Bransen just shook his head and, with a glance back at the group, followed Jameston into the brush.

  “If you’re thinking this to be a clean war of minor wounds, then you’re the fool,” Jameston warned. “I hope you’ve got the stomach to kill a man when you need to.”

  “I know a couple of former Samhaist priests, a young thug, and a former laird who would vouch for me on that point.”

  Jameston nodded and held his knowing grin. “Glad you can do it,” he said. “And gladder still that you don’t prefer it that way.”

  Bransen nodded.

  So was he.

  EIGHTEEN

  In the Arms of My Loving Mother

  Alas, Brother Fatuus,” Brother Pinower said as his fellow monk from the Chapel of Precious Memories was shoved before the imposing line of Laird Panlamaris’s considerable force. Pinower leaned on the crenellated wall of Chapel Abelle’s gate tower roof, along with all the principals of the mother chapel and the visiting dignitaries from Vanguard, including Cadayle and Callen.

  Hands bound behind his back, poor Fatuus couldn’t hold his balance and fell hard to the ground.

  A few feet behind the battered monk, sitting astride a large gray mare and dressed in splendid bronze armor, Laird Panlamaris didn’t blink, and none of his attendants moved to help poor Fatuus back to his feet.

  Panlamaris said something to the man standing beside his horse, who sprinted across the field to the man who was positioned not far below Chapel Abelle’s imposing wall.

  “Your answer to King Yeslnik’s edict is unacceptable,” that courier relayed.

  The brothers of Chapel Abelle weren’t surprised by the appearance of the Palmaristown soldiers that morning, for a handful-just a handful!-of Palmaristown’s monks had managed to get to Chapel Abelle with word of the takeover of the Chapel of Precious Memories by the angry Laird Panlamaris.

  “You will release the prisoners loyal to King Yeslnik!” Panlamaris’s courier shouted. “The others, and the Highwayman, will be turned over to Laird Panlamaris!”

  “The Highwayman?” Brother Pinower remarked. “How could he know…?”

  “De Guilbe,” Brother Giavno reasoned, shaking his head.

  “Good, they think he’s here,” Cadayle couldn’t help but whisper, and her mother pulled her close.

  “It saddens me to see how far my old friend De Guilbe has fallen,” said Father Artolivan, who seemed very weary and old indeed that day. “And all because of foolish pride.”

  “What say you, Father Artolivan?” the courier demanded. “My laird grows impatient.”

  Artolivan started to reply, but Dame Gwydre begged his indulgence and stepped up beside him. “I, too, rule a Holding of Honce,” she called down. “A large one and no enemy of, or stranger to, the sailors of Palmaristown. Make your Laird Panlamaris aware that an attack on Chapel Abelle at this time is also an attack on Dame Gwydre of Vanguard.”

  The relay man looked to the courier, who nodded. He ran back across the field and the dame’s words were told to Laird Panlamaris.

  His answer came back immediately, for he obviously had known that Dame Gwydre and her contingent were present in Chapel Abelle.

  “My Laird Panlamaris offers you sanctuary, good Lady of Vanguard,” the courier explained. “You and those loyal to you may leave Chapel Abelle now by ship or through the front gate. This is not your disagreement.”

  “My fight, you mean, for you come with swords.”

  The courier had no response. Gwydre looked around at the monks, who were all staring at her with breath held, and smiled her assurance.

  “There your laird errs, my friend,” she called down. “This is my… disagreement. I and my Vanguardsmen will not leave Chapel Abelle at this time. Tell Laird Panlamaris that Dame Gwydre and Vanguard stand with Father Artolivan as guests in his good house. Explain that your laird, too, is welcome here, where we may speak of these pressing issues before rash decisions are made that cannot be undone.”

  Laird Panlamaris’s response came back in mere heartbeats. “Father Artolivan’s decree of disobedience to the throne, if it stands, thus does end all discussion.”

  “It stands, and I stand with Father Artolivan,” said Gwydre. “Pray tell your laird that he should consider very wisely his next actions.”

  The proclamation, so final and clear, lifted the hearts of all the brothers.

  Word went back and came forward, and the courier’s pause as Panlamaris’s response was whispered into his ear foretold ill.

  “We have prisoners, Father Artolivan,” he said with a backward motion. On Panlamaris’s responding wave, a dozen or so captured brothers from the Chapel of Precious Memories were shoved forward to stand beside the kneeling Fatuus.

  “Surrender the prisoners loyal to King Yeslnik,” the courier demanded. “Or these men who would not denounce you, your brethren, are declared guilty of treason against the throne of King Yeslnik and shall be punished accordingly.”

  “Treason?” Father Premujon shouted before Artolivan could reply. “They have done nothing!”

  “They refused the leniency of Laird Panlamaris and the choice of the new father of the Chapel of Precious Memories, Father De Guilbe,” the courier said. Gasps sounded all along the wall.

  “This is my Laird Panlamaris’s last word,” the courier finished. “Release the prisoners loyal to King Yeslnik at once or witness the consequences.” He bowed and ran across the field to join his companions.

  “I cannot do this,” Father Artolivan lamented. “But am I to witness the executions of innocent men?”

  “Perhaps we should let them go,” said Gwydre.

  “And then he will demand that we turn over the men of Ethelbert for execution as King Yeslnik has decreed,” said Artolivan. Gwydre had no answer.

  But across the field, Brother Fatuus did.

  “Abelle!” he cried, his voice clear, unafraid, slicing loudly through the windy day. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Saint?” said one monk down the wall. “That is heresy. The beatification has only just-” Others hushed him.

  Brother Fatuus rolled over and managed to slip his bound hands around his tucked feet to bring them in front of him. He flipped up from his knees to his feet and began walking toward Chapel Abelle, repeating that cadence every step, his voice strong and without a quiver. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Oma tula mere?” Brother Pinower and others asked.

  “He’s got Vanguard blood, he does!” Dawson McKeege explained. “Oma tula mere-in the arms of my loving mother.”

  “What is he doing?” asked Brother Pinower.

  “He is giving his soul,” Father Artolivan replied, his eyes growing moist.

  Cries of “Halt!” resounded from Panlamaris’s line, to which Fatu
us merely lifted his arms and eyes to the sky and continued his march and his chant.

  Panlamaris motioned a spearman to his side and pointed emphatically at Fatuus.

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tu-” Fatuus gasped as a missile hit him square in the back. Everyone watching from the chapel walls and tall buildings-monks, Vanguardsmen, and even the men who had been sent to Chapel Abelle as prisoners-gasped when the point of that spear drove through the monk’s back and out his belly.

  Fatuus dropped to his knees, arms still high, gasping for breath. Somewhere, somehow, he found a moment of great strength and wrenched his hands apart, loosing the bindings. Fatuus found his voice again. “Oma tula mere!” The wounded monk miraculously regained his footing, impaled though he was, and resumed his march, his arms high and wide.

  A furious Laird Panlamaris summoned other spearmen; a barrage of missiles soared at Fatuus. Again and again the spears violated his flesh, plunging into his shoulder, his back, his calves.

  Fatuus kept walking, kept chanting, now more like singing to a beloved. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Stop him!” Laird Panlamaris howled, but those soldiers around him seemed frozen, awestruck, as were the witnesses within Chapel Abelle.

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!” Brother Fatuus sang, joined by a dozen other prisoners of Laird Panlamaris, who began to walk toward Chapel Abelle.

  Spears reached for them. Riders broke from Panlamaris’s ranks, running down the brothers, cutting them down with heavy bronze swords. But not one stopped chanting until the moment of his death. Not one cried for mercy or in pain.

  Ahead of them Brother Fatuus, impaled by seven heavy spears, kept walking and singing. A rider bore down on the monk.

  “Shoot him dead!” Father Artolivan shouted.

  “Stop him!” Cadayle screamed.

  “We can’t reach!” Brother Jurgyen cried in reply. All winced at the expected moment of Fatuus’s death.

  Suddenly the rider’s mount stopped and bucked, then spun about, hurling him to the ground. The horse began pawing the ground wildly, kicking and neighing as if it had gone mad. The swordsman crawled away, dragging a broken leg.