The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  He grimaced away that ridiculous question with the image of Cadayle, pregnant Cadayle. The world might be worth nothing to him at that time, but Cadayle was worth everything.

  Before Bransen could begin his desperate move, though, a voice from the doorway behind him interrupted the scene.

  “Laird Bannagran, I beg!” said Master Reandu, his tone and his frantic, flailing arms full of horror.

  “It is not your begging I seek, Reandu!” Bannagran stared hatefully at Bransen.

  “What is this horror?” Reandu asked, coming around to better examine Bransen and the devious contraption that held him.

  “None of your affair,” said Bannagran.

  “I protest.”

  “Go back to your chapel.”

  “No!”

  Bannagran looked at him threateningly.

  “Bannagran, laird, I beg of you. This man has done nothing to deserve—”

  “The same could be said of most men and women my age in all of Honce,” Bransen interrupted. “Deserve?” he laughed. “Have you been to the south where all hint of society has been replaced by savagery? Where the weak are slaves to the strong, the women chattel to be taken by any man who so desires? Where every decency has been sublimated to every urge?” He laughed again. “Deserve? Do any of us deserve the hubris of Delaval, now the idiot Yeslnik, and of Ethelbert? Or do we all deserve it because it is naught but a sad joke?”

  “Bransen,” Reandu scolded.

  “You really do not care, do you?” asked Bannagran. “Would you grin as you died if I cut open your throat now?” The Bear of Honce smiled wickedly as he asked the question, lifting the knife as he approached.

  Bransen smiled back and made no move to resist or protest at all.

  “Spare him,” Reandu begged.

  “He must tell me everything he has learned,” Bannagran demanded. “He has been to Ethelbert. He claims he knows who killed King Delaval. I will have every word.”

  “And then you will spare him?”

  “If his words please me, perhaps,” was all Bannagran would give. “But know that my patience is ended.”

  “Your blade will do no more than free me,” Bransen said.

  “Bransen!” Reandu scolded. “Tell him!”

  Bransen looked at him incredulously.

  “If you care not at all about anything as you claim, then what harm is there in telling Bannagran what he wishes to know?” Reandu reasoned. “What sense is there in offering your life? What are you protecting?”

  The words gave Bransen pause, reflected clearly on his face, so clearly, in fact, that Bannagran lowered his blade and waited. Bransen thought again of Cadayle. He could not throw away his responsibilities to her!

  “Laird Delaval was murdered by a woman,” Bransen said. “Of Behr. She is Hou-lei and not Jhesta Tu.”

  Reandu and Bannagran looked to each other in confusion.

  “Hou-lei, an older order than Jhesta Tu,” Bransen explained. “With a philosophy that names a warrior as but an instrument, a mercenary. Her name is Affwin Wi. She leads a band of several followers. She broke her sword in King Delaval’s chest and has claimed my sword as her own for replacement. If you fight her, Bannagran, she will kill you. So would Merwal Yahna, her escort, who is stronger but not as skilled.”

  Clouds of doubt crossed Bannagran’s strong features.

  “I have fought them both and have battled you more than once,” Bransen said evenly. “Either would defeat you.”

  “These are Ethelbert’s assassins?” Reandu asked, trying desperately to keep the conversation moving forward.

  “Who came out of the city in the dark of night and turned back Prince Milwellis’s army,” Bransen said. Bannagran’s eyes went wide, telling the young man that he had hit something important.

  “Only a handful, though, you say?” Bannagran asked.

  “One less, perhaps two less, by my hand,” said Bransen.

  “Why would you fight them?” Bannagran asked suspiciously. “Have you thrown in with King Yeslnik?”

  “They disgust me,” Bransen answered. “Ethelbert disgusts me. Yeslnik disgusts me, and you disgust me.”

  “Bransen!” said Reandu.

  “You have ruined the world,” Bransen continued, heedless of the frantic monk. “You trample children under your march and do not care. You have destroyed all expressions of civilized life in the south. You bring misery to every man and woman of Honce and care not at all.”

  “Bransen, please,” Reandu begged.

  Bransen didn’t even glance at him, his steely gaze locked on the Laird of Pryd. “You ask me to fly a pennant from my sword tip. You, all of you, demand that I choose a side.” He snorted derisively and did then look at Reandu. “When I was young and at Chapel Pryd, you might have asked me an equally relevant question, Master Reandu. You might have asked which chamber pot, which pail of shit and piss, I preferred: the one hanging from my right hand or the one hanging from my left.”

  Reandu put his hand over his mouth and fell back a step, turning to Bannagran as if he expected the ferocious laird to kill Bransen then and there. To his surprise, though (and to Bransen’s as well), the young man’s vicious words seemed to have a calming effect on Bannagran and even backed him off a step or two.

  “So Bransen fights for no one except Bransen, then?” Bannagran asked.

  “Bransen chooses not to fight at all,” Bransen replied. “But should he have to, then yes.”

  “I will march to war soon,” Bannagran said. “Bransen will march beside me.”

  The Highwayman looked at him as if the statement were preposterous, as if the Bear had lost his mind.

  “Because if you do, I will ensure that you and your family will live in Pryd Town and live well. Callen Duwornay and her daughter will be welcomed back, and I will see to it that they are never in need again.”

  “I am Jhesta Tu, not Hou-lei,” Bransen replied. “I am no mercenary.”

  “Why not?”

  Bannagran’s simple question struck him hard.

  “You will be doing no more than emptying chamber pots by your own words,” Bannagran continued.

  “Nay, to do as you ask would be putting my skills against simple peasants pressed to service, who do not deserve my wrath.”

  But Bannagran was shaking his head. “Fight only this Affwin Wi creature, then,” he said. “And her consort. Slay those who murdered King Delaval, and I am confident that King Yeslnik will forgive your every crime. He fears these assassins—it is why he fled the field before Ethelbert’s gates. But now he is determined to return to the coastal city and be done with Ethelbert, and no doubt he will succeed. If in that process the Highwayman rids him of the assassins he most fears, then his gratitude will lead to pardon. And in return, I will let you and your family live in Pryd Town forevermore, as distinguished citizens in good standing. Choose your home among any standing, save Castle Pryd itself, and I will grant it.”

  Bransen made no move to answer, and his visage did not soften.

  “Or, if you truly care not for anything,” Bannagran added, “you can die here in this miserable dungeon.” He seemed quite amused with his own cleverness as he continued, “Perhaps I will just let you starve and rot here in the mud, then leave you for the rats to devour. Or I’ll have my most trusted guards drag your rotting body out into the woods, perhaps, to bury you where you’ll never be found. Then I’ll tell your lady that I know not what might have happened to you and let her live her life in misery, ever watching for your return.”

  “You would do exactly that, wouldn’t you?” Bransen said with contempt.

  “You claim that you do not care. But you know me, Highwayman, and you know that I care even less. I must go and face Ethelbert again. I plan to survive the journey, and if your blade helps me to do that then so be it. If you choose to be of no use to me, then you are of no use to me, and so I simply do not care for you.”

  “Accept the deal, Bransen,” Reandu whispered breathlessly. “
By Blessed Abelle, man, I came here seeing no hope for you. And now there is opportunity and hope. Perhaps you will help facilitate the end of this wretched war at the same time.”

  Bransen’s thoughts were swirling; he had nothing to which he could attach them. No anchor, no reality. Bannagran had caught him completely off guard with the impromptu proposal. Was any of it possible? Was it possible that he would get his sword back? Or the brooch Father Artolivan had entrusted to him? And would Bannagran hold true to his promise? Would this action facilitate a better life for Callen and Cadayle and for his child?

  His child.

  Bransen found his anchor in that notion: his child.

  He silently berated himself for this surrender, for this willingness to see the end of his life. How selfish had he become in his despair!

  “How dare I?” he asked aloud.

  “How dare you?” Bannagran echoed skeptically. “How dare you not? What wondrous gift have I just offered you, fool! I could kill you without question here and now—nay, I would be hailed as a hero to the throne for ending your life. And yet, I offer you another way.”

  Bransen’s thoughts began to spin once more. The choice seemed obvious regarding the welfare of his wife and family, and, truly, what did he care if Yeslnik or Ethelbert won the day, so long as the miserable war found its end?

  He tried to consider the implications to Dame Gwydre, the one leader he considered worthy of her domain. But what Bransen didn’t know at that time was that Gwydre had thrown in with Ethelbert against Yeslnik, that she and Father Artolivan had repelled the attack of Laird Panlamaris and thus invoked the wrath of Yeslnik and of Palmaristown. He didn’t know that Dawson McKeege had sailed to Ethelbert dos Entel or that Cormack and Milkeila were even then in Ethelbert’s court.

  “How do I know that you will be true to your word?” Bransen asked.

  Bannagran smiled, obviously recognizing victory. “What do I have to gain by lying?” he asked. “If I cared whether you lived or died, you’d be long dead already.”

  “But if I succeed, you would have me living in Pryd Town.”

  “Expect no invitations to dine at Castle Pryd,” the laird said dryly.

  Bransen nodded. He felt as if he understood Bannagran fairly well. The man was callous and so ferocious as to be rightly considered vicious, but there was a measure of nobility there, a measure of honor. Bannagran had no reason to lie to him and no reason to fear him.

  “I will kill Affwin Wi,” the Highwayman declared. “And Merwal Yahna.”

  Bannagran smiled. “I will summon the gaoler to free you of your chains,” he said. He walked up beside Bransen, hooked his hand under the band at the back of the man’s trousers, and tugged him backward, forcing him away from the wicked blade. With his free hand, Bannagran slid that blade free of the beam and threw it forcefully to the side of the room.

  “Yeslnik will not be pleased,” Bransen warned as Bannagran moved behind him toward the cell door.

  “Yeslnik is terrified of Ethelbert’s assassins,” the laird replied. “He will be thrilled.”

  “This brave and noble man you call king,” Bransen quipped.

  Bannagran paused before the door, even turned back in an initially angry reaction.

  But what could he say?

  SEVEN

  The Conscience Pangs of Pragmatism

  “I beg you to forget it,” Father Destros said to Cormack and Milkeila. “For the sake of the wider world, leave your personal inquiries aside.”

  “The man was a friend and an important part of Dame Gwydre’s designs,” Cormack argued. “Am I to simply believe that he is dead and care not for how that came about? Is there to be no value or justice or accountability to and for his death?”

  Father Destros gave a long and weary sigh. “How many hundreds, thousands, have died as such?”

  “But he was here,” Milkeila said.

  “Yes, this man Bransen, the man you call the Highwayman, was here in Ethelbert dos Entel, just a few weeks ago.”

  “And now Affwin Wi carries his sword,” Cormack said.

  “She had his sword when I was introduced to him, when she brought him before Laird Ethelbert,” Destros replied. “He was very much alive and well at that time, and yet, Affwin Wi carried his sword as her own.”

  “And the brooch on his forehead?”

  “That is why I and my brethren were brought to the meeting. We carried sunstones to counter any dangerous or devious magic the Highwayman might have tried to initiate at Laird Ethelbert. You must understand that we did not know his allegiance at that time, if he had any.”

  Milkeila put her hand on Cormack’s arm. Affwin Wi wore that brooch, and neither of them could imagine Bransen trying to get along without it. They had both seen him in Alpinador on Mithranidoon without a gemstone assisting his movements. Absent a soul stone, the Bransen they knew was a helpless, stuttering creature.

  “Might Affwin Wi have possessed another soul stone, Father?” Cormack asked quietly.

  The monk shook his head. “None of which I am aware. Laird Ethelbert holds a few stones of varied powers, a soul stone among them, I believe. But again, I warn you not to ask him and not to bring this conversation beyond these sheltered walls.”

  Cormack let a few moments pass. “And Jameston Sequin?” he asked again. “A tall man with a great mustache who favored the bow and a tricornered hat?”

  Father Destros shrugged and held his hands out helplessly. “Forget it,” he advised again.

  “If Affwin Wi played a role in Bransen’s death—”

  “Then you and Dame Gwydre,” Destros cut in, “would be better off knowing nothing about it.”

  It seemed wrong to Cormack, against every measure of justice and truth that he wanted so desperately to cling to as a guide for his life. But there was merit to Father Destros’s warnings. If he confronted Affwin Wi and his fears proved correct, she would likely attack him. Whichever proved victorious, Wi and her band or Cormack and Milkeila, the alliance he was working to forge between Dame Gwydre and Laird Ethelbert would be shattered.

  “Laird Ethelbert loves the woman,” Father Destros said, as he had declared at the beginning of their conversation. “He will support her, no matter her complicity in your friend’s demise. And we do not even know that he is dead!” The monk continued hopefully, “More likely Affwin Wi, who claimed him as a subordinate in her warrior band, sent him on some mission. Her followers are among the few scouts leaving the city of late, the eyes and ears of Laird Ethelbert, a most vital role. She would probably demand much of the Highwayman before accepting him fully into her elite band.”

  Cormack and Milkeila could do little more than nod their agreement with the reasoning, whatever they suspected differently. They took their leave of Chapel Entel then, Destros smiling and waving to them every step as they exited his audience hall.

  The father’s expression turned much darker the minute they were out the door, however, for he hadn’t told the couple everything. On the last day Bransen had been seen in the city, Destros had been summoned by Affwin Wi to use his gemstone magic on the grievous wounds of one of her warriors, wounds from which the man had succumbed. Across the room, obviously the scene of a terrific fight, another of the Hou-lei disciples lay dead. The Highwayman was nowhere to be found, but Affwin Wi had his sword and his brooch, and Destros didn’t need to stretch his imagination far to imagine the likely scenario that had led to the devastation: Bransen had fought with Affwin Wi’s followers and had subsequently been killed by the powerful woman and quietly disposed of.

  Destros had never been comfortable with Affwin Wi and the other warriors from Behr. His was not a parochial prejudice, for Destros was far more knowledgeable and tolerant of the traditions—even religions—of the southern kingdom than his monk brethren. He had been to Jacintha, the teeming, colorful, vibrant city south of the Belt-and-Buckle, and truly loved the place and its loud and emotional citizens. The Order of Abelle, like most of the folk of Honce, considered
the southerners to be unsophisticated, uncultured barbarians, the “Beasts of Behr.” But like the more knowledgeable folk of Ethelbert dos Entel—and Laird Ethelbert himself—Father Destros knew better.

  Still, he had little use and even less love for the ferocious Affwin Wi and her small band of mercenaries. He was fairly certain that she had killed the man known as the Highwayman and that it was likely not at the behest of—or even with the knowledge of—Laird Ethelbert.

  But the pragmatic monk, who truly wanted this alliance among Ethelbert dos Entel, Vanguard, and his beloved St. Mere Abelle, had no intention of making his suspicions known to the laird or to anyone else.

  By the time King Yeslnik caught up with Prince Milwellis and the Palmaristown garrison in the small town of Weatherguard, down the long grassy hill from Chapel Abelle, the siege and assault preparations were already well under way. Lines of men bearing great logs streamed into the town, which now had far more invading soldiers living in tents than residents in more permanent structures. Huge piles of stones grew daily.

  Milwellis stood in the command tent before a large topographical map spread wide on a table. On the map were lines of models of the catapults and small, carved markers to represent cavalry units and archer brigades.

  “Do not begin your bombardment of the fools until the harbor is secure,” Yeslnik instructed as he entered.

  “My father’s fleet will see to that presently,” the prince replied.

  “His warships are in the gulf, yes,” said Yeslnik. “But beware, for if the monks determine that they must flee, they will go out in great numbers armed with their devilish gemstones. Before the weight of magical fire and lightning, even our greater ships will prove vulnerable.”

  Yeslnik and his wife, who stood just behind him, noted a wry smile on the ever prideful Milwellis’s face.

  “They will not get out of their harbor,” the prince assured his liege. “They protect their docks with a narrow channel between high cliffs. There is but one approach between rocky reefs.”