They ran, terrified, overwhelmed, and confused. The Highwayman caught one and cut him down. He heard the whizzing of arrows cutting the air nearby as Jameston Sequin took down a second and then a third.
Weariness and pain overwhelmed him. The Highwayman dropped the magic enacting the fiery cloak, then dismissed the serpentine shield and fell fully into the central gem of the brooch, the soul stone, seeking the warmth of its healing magic.
Bransen knelt in the dirt while all around him townsfolk cheered and screamed and cried. Glad he was to see the familiar boots of Jameston before him, to feel his companion’s hand grasp him under his good shoulder and help him back to his feet.
“Pull it out,” Bransen said through gritted teeth, meaning the arrow.
“I’ll get whiskey and something for you to bite.”
Bransen grabbed him hard as he started to turn away. “Now!” he demanded.
“Boy, you can’t-”
“Now!” Bransen insisted, tugging Jameston’s hand toward the arrow shaft. Jameston still resisted, so Bransen reached for the bolt himself and grimaced all the more as he tugged on the arrow.
“Push it through!” Jameston enjoined. He grasped Bransen’s hand with his own, reversing the pressure.
Waves of agony assaulted Bransen, but he fell into his meditation and into the soul stone. A moment later he felt a sudden looseness in the wound as Jameston pulled the arrow from the back of his shoulder.
“You won’t be using that arm anytime soon,” the scout lamented. Bransen didn’t even hear him, his thoughts fully immersed in his discipline and the gemstone magic even as his free hand grasped the wound.
The townsfolk gathered about them, clapping and nodding their appreciation, but Bransen’s focus remained absolute. Jameston began talking to the people, but Bransen didn’t hear. He stood straight and let go of his shoulder: No blood came forth. Jameston and the others looked on in amazement as Bransen reached down and retrieved his sword-with his left hand. He spun the weapon over and slid it expertly into the sheath on his left hip, showing only a trace of a grimace.
“I’ll be using the arm sooner than you believe,” Bransen said softly to his friend.
“How’d you jump that wall like that? How’d you throw a man onto a roof? How’d you do that with the fire?” Jameston came back at him, one, two, three.
Bransen smiled coyly, though in truth he really had no idea. Something momentous was happening here, some joining of his Jhesta Tu sensibilities and the powerful brooch upon his forehead. He had walked through flames before, stepping from the log pile of a Samhaist bonfire to strike down the evil Bernivvigar. His Jhesta Tu training alone had assisted him in keeping the flames from his body, but it had been a very temporary effect. This time was different. He had magically summoned the flames about his whole body and had hardly felt their warmth. Not a wisp of smoke now arose from his clothing. Skilled monks could use their serpentine to enact such shields against fire, of course, but the speed and completeness of Bransen’s work with the gems at his disposal had surprised even him. Made him ponder what other wonders lay before him.
“Oh, but ye saved us!” one old woman cried, taking Bransen from his private thoughts. He looked around at the gathering of townsfolk then, noting the absence of men. This village was old and very young, but there was little in between, like so many of the other villages of warravaged Honce.
“Who were these marauders?” Jameston asked. “What laird do they serve?”
“Ethelbert’s own,” an old man answered. “And ain’t yerself?”
Jameston’s head shook most emphatically. “We serve at the pleasure of Dame Gwydre.”
The old man looked skeptical. “But he’s looking like one o’ Ethelbert’s,” he said, pointing to Bransen.
The clothes, Bransen knew. He sucked in his breath at the reminder that there were Jhesta Tu about, that he was close to his goal, his last best hope.
“Not with Ethelbert-never met the man,” Jameston assured them. “But these soldiers were from Laird Ethelbert’s ranks?”
“This time,” the old man replied. The resignation in his voice was not hard to hear. “Next time it’ll be Delaval’s men.”
“Yeslnik’s,” a girl corrected, and the old man snorted as if that mattered not at all. It didn’t, from the perspective of the poor villagers caught in the middle of violent chaos.
“They be all about the land, roaming like animals,” another elderly man explained. “Prince Milwellis is fighting at the coast again, but in here there’s just pieces of the armies, scattered and finding food where they can.”
“And who do you serve, Ethelbert or Yeslnik?” Bransen asked to many a blank stare.
“Don’t think they care,” Jameston suggested in a whisper.
No camps, no food wagons, no one giving orders,” Jameston elaborated as he and Bransen made their way out of the small village. “Just a bunch of broken soldiers, hungry and scared and with nothing to believe in. I’ve seen it before.”
Bransen shook his head, not able to grasp it.
“They fell off the side of the armies-both armies,” Jameston explained. “Or they ran off the side. There’s a point where it’s too much fighting. Drives a man blood-crazy, takes the point of it all from him.”
“Was there ever a point to it?” Bransen asked. “More than the greed of a couple of selfish lairds, I mean?”
Jameston shrugged. “Pride of home, fear of not defending what’s yours. Starts that way, might still be that way for many in the ranks of both armies, but for some there comes a time when they can’t remember their home, at least not well enough to connect it to what they’re doing way out here. Maybe some just have nothing left to fight for.”
“So they slaughter defenseless villagers?”
Jameston shrugged again. “I’m not excusing it, boy. I’m telling you what is, not what should be.”
“And it will only continue to get worse,” said Bransen.
“Or so many will just be dead that there won’t be enough left to make it worse,” said Jameston.
“Your optimism inspires me.”
“You don’t care about it anyway, boy. Remember?”
Bransen shot him a cold look. “We should go straight to Ethelbert dos Entel,” Jameson said, his laugh a pitiful sound.
“We?” Bransen asked. “I should go. Where Jameston goes is for Jameston to decide.”
“Already told you I was following you.”
“Have I told you that you needn’t?”
“Every step.”
“Have I told you that I don’t want you to?”
“You’ll get to that eventually,” Jameston replied with a disarming grin. “But I’m here now, so I can tell you that you’d be quite the fool to walk into Ethelbert’s city.”
“How so? How am I to find the Jhesta Tu I seek? Should I just walk from village to village?”
“Going to Ethelbert’s city might get you to meet them, indeed, but not in the way you’re wanting.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying, boy, I’m saying. There’s a laird in Ethelbert dos Entel who might be thinking that it’s past time to negotiate a truce. We’re not far from his home, with nothing but the sea behind him. Wouldn’t he have a treasure to offer King Yeslnik if the Highwayman walked into his midst?”
“But he above all must know that I was not involved!” Bransen protested.
“You’re still believing that matters? After all this and all you’ve seen?”
Bransen considered it for a moment, then gave a helpless shake of his head. “No.”
“What do you want?” Jameston asked him. “You want to meet these assassins Ethelbert’s brought from Behr-”
“They are Jhesta Tu, not assassins.”
“King Delaval would disagree. If he were alive, I mean.”
“If they killed King Delaval…”
“You saw the sword.”
“It was because they believed in
the cause against him,” Bransen stubbornly finished. “The code of Jhest is not mercenary, it is principle. If the Jhesta Tu have allied with Laird Ethelbert, then that speaks well of Laird Ethelbert.”
“And if I give you that, will you answer my question? What do you want, boy?”
“First, I want you to stop calling me boy.”
Jameston nodded. “What would be your perfect life? To live with Cadayle and your child, your children, and with Callen nearby? All in peace? To farm the land or hunt for food? To go to church and pray to Whatever gods you find?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What do you want?”
“I want…” Bransen took a deep breath and truly considered the question. “I want a home for my family, and peace, yes. I’m sick of smelling corpses.”
“Are you sick of battle? Even when it means battling someone like Badden or that priest Bernivvigar before him?”
Bransen looked at Jameston as if the man had just slapped him across the face.
“You spend your hours working that sword and working your body through practice-practice for fighting,” Jameston remarked. “You just found strength back there in that village that I’ve never seen before. Did you hate it, b… Bransen? Do you hate the fighting even when you’re thinking the fight to be just?”
“Just? For which laird? They are two sides of the same ugly stone!”
“Forget that!” Jameston scolded. “Forget the greed and the pride behind it all and make it personal, just for now. Just so you can answer-to yourself and not to me. What drove you to rescue Callen and Cadayle? What did you feel when Badden’s head flew from his shoulders? What do you want, Bransen Garibond? What do you want, Highwayman? Who is the Highwayman? Why is he the Highwayman?”
Every word stabbed at Bransen’s sensibilities profoundly. He wanted to shout at Jameston that Dame Gwydre had obviously put him up to that line of questioning, so much had it echoed her more gentle nudging over the winter in Pellinor.
He knew what he wanted regarding Cadayle and his coming child-and more children, he hoped. For them, with them, he wanted peace and security and enough comfort to give them the room to love and enjoy one another.
But Jameston was right, he knew, though he wouldn’t openly admit it at that strange moment. There was more to him than Bransen Garibond.
There was the Highwayman.
TWENTY-THREE
From the Depths
We might be able to get to smoother and deeper water,” the helmsman reported to Dawson as he ran back amidships. “I’m betting Lady Dreamer can run from them warships when the swells ain’t so tall.”
“Aye, and what o’ Shelligan’s, then? She’s not so fleet,” another crewman reminded.
“What of her, then?” the first replied angrily. “If we’re to fight beside her, then we’re to drown beside her!”
“Enough o’ that,” Dawson implored. He turned to Cormack and particularly to Milkeila. “You’ve got some magic, I’m hoping.”
Milkeila glanced at the vast and powerful ocean waters, then back at Dawson doubtfully.
“A few tricks?” asked Dawson.
Both the young fighters nodded reluctantly.
“And so we aren’t leaving Shelligan’s Run,” Dawson declared loudly. He focused his gaze on the helmsman. “A sorry group o’ friends we’d be and a sorrier commander by far for meself if we’d leave our friends to certain doom.”
“But it’s certain doom for them if we stay and fight, too,” the helmsman stubbornly reminded.
“Aye, might well be, but we’ll sting the Palmaristown dogs, don’t you doubt. And we won’t be sailing the seas the rest of our days remembering them we let die!”
That last statement had the crewmen gathered about pumping their fists with determination.
“Signal Shelligan’s,” Dawson ordered. “Fill the sails and start east and just a bit north. We’ll split them wider as they try to box us, then turn back to fight two on two to start it up.”
“Two on four, ye mean, since they’re twice our size,” the helmsman grumbled, but the man beside him slapped the back of his head and bid him shut his mouth.
Lady Dreamer signaled her sister ship and waited patiently as she readied her sails. All the while the five Palmaristown ships continued weaving their net, two to the south, one to the north, and two more coming straight in at the prey from the west.
“Go then!” Dawson called when Shelligan’s Run signaled she was ready and began to tack, turning her prow east. “And don’t outrun Shelligan’s!”
The chase was on, seven ships crashing through the swells at full sails, oak beams creaking and groaning in protest, crewmen pulling hard on the ropes to try to keep the sails angled perfectly to make the most of the strong spring breeze. As the ships leaped away, it seemed like they were holding their own against the two in pursuit. Dawson briefly wondered if they might just try to keep running.
But the Palmaristown caravel in the north was too fast and would soon enough be able to turn south to cut them off and slow them enough for the two behind to catch and rake their decks with volleys of arrows and giant ballista bolts.
Dawson moved to the taffrail, Cormack and Milkeila beside him, watching the run, gauging the progress of the chasing warships and the one in the north. He had to make his dramatic turn before that one started south, or it would catch them before they could get in a straight run again.
He’d wait until the last moment, for that northern ship was outdistancing the two chasers, and the two by the coast were making no move to close, instead ensuring no escape to the coast and freedom.
“Did you see that?” Milkeila asked suddenly, pointing. Both Cormack and Dawson turned to her, following her finger to the north, to the Palmaristown ship. Angled strangely, her prow suddenly too much pointed northward, her sails slack, her momentum stolen.
“She hit a rock!” Cormack exclaimed, for indeed it appeared as if the ship had struck something, and hard.
“No rocks, no reefs this far out,” Dawson muttered with certainty. He knew every bit of the gulf waters better than any man alive.
But the other ship was stopped. She shuddered again as they watched, her masts trembling violently, her sails whipping back and forth. They were too far away to make out any distinct movements on her deck, but they saw commotion there, sailors running about.
“What is it?” Cormack asked.
“I’m not knowing,” said Dawson. “Break north!” he shouted to his crew. “And signal Shelligan’s to the same!”
Heartbeats later Lady Dreamer leaned low to port, Shelligan’s Run in her wake.
Yach, but they got her!” Shiknickel cried to his crew, a score of bandy-legged powries pedaling hard to turn the screw on their deadly, ram-headed barrel boat. “Cracked her wood and told the sea to come aboard!” The powries gave a cheer.
“Well, turn us to her, then, so’s I can wet me cap in human blood!” one cried to the agreement of all.
“What ho now?” Shiknickel asked, glancing to the side out the one conning tower on the cylindrical, mostly submerged boat. “Two more coming to play.”
“Two o’ her friends, or the two they were chasing?” asked one of the crew.
“The runners. They’re thinking the way clear, they are. Yach, but we’ll show them the bottom!”
Others cheered, but two dwarves near the back of the barrel boat glanced at each other and stopped their leg pumping. One hopped up and made his way forward.
“What’re ye about?” Shiknickel demanded as he came to the side of the sturdy captain.
“About seeing the flag on them new-coming boats,” answered the dwarf, a recent addition to Shiknickel’s crew.
“Well what’re ye knowin’, Mcwigik?” Shiknickel asked, showing great deference for this one, who had been hailed as the savior of a lost powrie band that had been missing for one hundred years.
Shiknickel stepped aside as Mcwigik moved to the small top port to climb the three-step ladder
and poke his head out, staring to the south.
“Dame Gwydre’s flag?” called Bikelbrin from the back.
Mcwigik strained to make out the pennant. “Aye!” he said at length. “Flying the flag we seen over Castle Pellinor.”
“The Vanguard queen who sent ye back to fetch our lost kin?” Shiknickel asked.
“That don’t matter!” one of the bloodthirsty crew protested.
“Shut yer mouth, or I’ll be fillin’ it with me fist!” Shiknickel barked at him, for indeed, three of the dwarves who had been retrieved from Mithranidoon, including gray-beard Kriminig, were of Shiknickel’s own clan. Kriminig, whose beret glowed as brightly as any dwarf’s in all the Julianthes, had long been regarded as a (missing) hero of the dwarf captain’s clan.
“Aye, it’s Gwydre’s boat,” Mcwigik replied when the captain looked his way.
“And ye don’t want us to hit it?”
“Not with bigger boats chasing it,” Mcwigik reasoned, assured that he had hit a good note when Shiknickel’s face brightened. The captain pulled out a small, reflective device to signal the other barrel boats in the water, moving past Mcwigik to the top. Shiknickel stopped Mcwigik when he started back for his seat.
“Stay beside me a bit,” he ordered. “We’ll be going close by them littler ones, and if they’re not what ye’re thinking they’ll be the first to drown.”
More than one set of eyes focused on Dawson when the screaming started from the Palmaristown ship to the north. Something terrible was happening there, and Lady Dreamer was sailing right toward it.
The warship shuddered again and her mainmast lurched over to port, and, even from this distance, the crew of Lady Dreamer could discern that it had cracked down by its base. The ship was taking on water, evidenced by a pronounced list.
“What’s hitting her?” more than one crewman asked, voices tinged with fear.
Dawson, too, was more than a little afraid of this course that would bring them so close to Whatever was destroying a great warship so efficiently, but when he glanced behind, he saw the two Palmaristown ships in full pursuit. To stop or even turn was to fight them; to fight them was surely to die.
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