The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  “To Ethelbert dos Entel?” she asked.

  Cawley groaned and nodded.

  “You march to kill Laird Ethelbert?”

  “No,” the man gasped. “I’m just a soldier. I do what they tell me.”

  Behind the woman, a man spoke in a language Cawley did not understand.

  “How many soldiers?” the woman asked.

  Cawley stammered, “Lots.”

  The woman hit him again, and again.

  “Five thousand o’ Pryd,” he blurted, and she backed off momentarily. “The rest’re from King Yeslnik.”

  This time she punched him square on the nose, shattering it and jolting his head back against the tree. It took Cawley a few moments for his eyes to stop spinning, and he tasted the blood running from his broken nose.

  “Yeslnik is not the king. Ethelbert is the king,” she corrected.

  “I’m not for caring who’s the damned king,” Cawley said, finding strength and courage in the certainty then that he would soon be dead no matter what he said.

  The woman stepped back and stood up straight. She glanced over her shoulder at the man Cawley could not see and said something again in the language he could not understand. Then she turned back, and her smile—her awful smile—told him.

  His eyes widened; he started to cry out.

  The woman turned sidelong as she dropped low into a crouch that seemed almost as if she were sitting on the ground. Out snapped her leg, perfectly aimed, her foot slamming into Cawley’s throat with jarring force. He rebounded off the tree again, and a strange tingling, a sensation of utter numbness, began to flow out to his limbs. He considered that curious sensation for some time before realizing that he could no longer draw breath.

  He saw the man then, dressed in black like the woman, walking past him. He didn’t understand, didn’t feel anything, but he noticed that his arms fell freely at his sides and that the ties had been cut as he began to tilt to the side. Cawley felt nothing as he fell over. He kept trying to draw breath, but none would come.

  The man moved above him—he sensed that he was about to be finished off—but the woman intervened, speaking to him harshly but more to Cawley in his own tongue.

  “Let him die slowly,” the woman said. “Let him know that he’s dying.”

  Cawley heard the words and watched the man and woman walk away, but that offered little encouragement to the suffocating, paralyzed man. He thought of his wife and their kids. He dreamed of working the fields with his sons, of going home that night to hot pumpkin pie, or apple pie—yes, apple, he decided, for none in Comey Downs could make an apple pie better than Maisey Andadin. . . .

  The starlight faded to black.

  Bransen sensed something. . . . He couldn’t be sure of what, exactly, but he had come out of his meditation certain that something unusual was afoot in the dark and quiet night. He unwound himself from his cross-legged position and came to his feet in perfect silence. Bransen narrowed his gaze and scanned the dark forest beyond the campfires.

  He thought of the gem-encrusted star brooch then and the cat’s-eye agate that allowed him to see in the dark. How he wished he possessed such a gemstone now!

  Bransen closed his eyes and recalled the stone and the sensations of its magical emanations. He could nearly levitate without malachite, so when he opened his eyes he tried to mimic the cat’s-eye magic and found to his surprise that the dark was not nearly as absolute. Off he went at a swift pace. He started to discard his uncomfortable monk robes as soon as he moved out of sight of the tents, but he changed his mind; if he were caught here by Bannagran’s men it would not do well for them to recognize him as the Highwayman.

  Even in the bulky woolen garment the Highwayman moved with grace and silence, gliding through the shadows with ease, hearing every sound about him, smelling the scents of various animals. He wasn’t sure what had stirred him from his contemplation, and his direction seemed random to him on a conscious level, but he continued on, trusting in his instinct.

  He found a soldier lying in the dirt, very still.

  Bransen soon discerned that a single blow to the throat had felled the man, though he had been beaten somewhat before that mortal strike. Blood had started to cake on his face from the broken nose. A glance at the tree, at the hair and blood stuck on its bark at less than waist height, informed Bransen even more of what had just occurred here.

  The fallen man was not breathing. Bransen grabbed the man’s windpipe and gently massaged it, glad for the soul stone Reandu had offered. He used that magic now, sending waves of warm breath into the soldier, repairing his crushed throat and calling his spirit back to his broken form.

  A long while slipped past, but Bransen did not stop his work. He sensed the slightest bit of breath in the man’s throat, so he reached for the gemstone magic even more furiously.

  It wasn’t until the man began to cough that Bransen realized his own emotional disconnect throughout this process. He had seen a man in trouble, and his instincts had taken over. He had put himself in a vulnerable position, falling into the swirl of hematite out here in the forest and with enemies so obviously near.

  He knew with certainty that only one person would have done this, and that gave him great pause. Why was this man still alive? Affwin Wi didn’t make such mistakes, and so Bransen knew then that it was likely not a mistake.

  Was she baiting him, trying to lure him into the open?

  He looked at the poor soldier, sent his thoughts through the hematite one last time to give the man a bit more relief. And as he did, the Highwayman laughed at himself and his stubbornness to ignore the world around him.

  For such was the truth of who he was, no matter how hard the Highwayman tried to deny it. He could lie to himself and insist that he hadn’t fallen over the wounded man to save him for the sake of the man’s life, but to save him so that he, Bransen, could possibly gain some important information.

  That not-so-subtle distinction was not lost on the young warrior, and when the soldier at last opened his eyes to look upon the man in monk’s robes who had brought him back to life, he found that stranger scowling severely.

  The soldier recoiled and curled defensively, coughing still.

  “Who are you, and who do you serve?” Bransen demanded.

  “Cawley o’ Comey Downs, for King Yeslnik and marching with Laird Bannagran!” the man rasped through his raw throat.

  “Rest easy, man, the danger is passed,” Bransen assured him. Gradually, Cawley unfolded and looked at him directly.

  “Two o’ them, at least,” Cawley gasped. “A woman, Beast o’ Behr. She caught me and kicked me.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Black—like the Highwayman . . . like you—” Cawley bit off the word and averted his eyes, and Bransen realized that the monk disguise was probably the worst-kept secret in the ranks.

  Within moments, Cawley was stumbling back into the encampment, holding his sore throat and happy to be alive. Bransen was long gone behind him, into the forest, his monk robes soon looped over a branch.

  He was hunting now. He was the Highwayman, a mask over his eyes. He knew now why he had come out of his meditative trance and understood the sensation that had alerted him.

  It was indeed Affwin Wi. It was his mother’s sword and the brooch Artolivan had given him. His blood and breathing ran hot with adrenaline as he moved through the forest, trying desperately to pick up the woman’s trail.

  Always correct,” Merwal Yahna said to Affwin Wi as they noted the Highwayman slipping through the trees below the hillock they had climbed to garner just such a view. “He saved the soldier no doubt.”

  “And the soldier sent him on his hunt for us.”

  Merwal Yahna pulled out his exotic weapon. “Shall we go and be done with the impudent man?”

  Affwin Wi was shaking her head. “He will be of use to us in dissuading Ethelbert from any rash decisions.”

  “He is dangerous—” Merwal Yahna bit that thought off s
hort when Affwin Wi scowled at him.

  “You wish to fight him again,” the man accused. “One against one.”

  “I will kill him when I must,” Affwin Wi assured him easily.

  “Such misplaced honor is Jhesta Tu, not Hou-lei,” Merwal Yahna reminded.

  “Honor?” Affwin Wi said doubtfully, and she added, “Sport.”

  Bransen was still moving, his footsteps coming more slowly, when the eastern sky brightened and the first ray of the sun peeked over the horizon. He ran up a tall tree then, scanning the countryside.

  But she was gone. He knew it in his heart.

  Bransen lay back against a branch, considering his missed opportunity. Rage bubbled inside him, for he wanted nothing more than to face this Hou-lei woman and retrieve his sword and brooch. And to kill her, he admitted to himself, for what she had done to Jameston Sequin.

  But his anger was tempered by thoughts of Cadayle and their unborn child. Could he beat Affwin Wi? Alone, even, although he knew that it was unlikely he would ever get the chance to fight her without Merwal Yahna at her side?

  He had vowed revenge, vowed to get his items back, but sitting there in the tree as dawn brightened the eastern sky, Bransen questioned his determination and his confidence. For all the value he placed in that sword, was it worth the price of his life—and not just his life, but the well-being of Cadayle and his child?

  Somewhere in the distance to the northwest a horn blew, and several others responded. The army was awake and soon to be moving. Bransen looked back the way he had come, estimating the miles between his current position and his monk disguise. He shook his head and started away, not to retrieve the robe, but to intercept Bannagran’s march.

  As the Highwayman.

  Cormack and Milkeila entered Laird Ethelbert’s chambers cautiously, still not quite sure of what to make of the elderly but energetic laird. The summons had been brought by one of Father Destros’s monks, which gave the couple some comfort, but the young monk’s demeanor, his level of urgency, had also brought trepidation.

  They entered the room to find Ethelbert sitting with his three generals, Father Destros, and another monk to one side and Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna standing before the throne. At the sight of the dangerous mercenaries, Cormack and Milkeila, holding hands, both squeezed more tightly.

  Ethelbert turned a stern glare over Destros, promptly dismissing the monk who had accompanied the couple.

  Cormack felt Affwin Wi’s stare boring into him as he walked up beside her to stand before the laird and his court.

  “Your plans fall like the rain and run to the sewers, it would seem,” Laird Ethelbert greeted.

  “Laird?”

  “You would have us parlay with Bannagran of Pryd, but this man they call the Bear marches now to destroy us,” Ethelbert explained.

  Cormack looked at Affwin Wi.

  “She found him less than a week’s march from here along with an army of many thousand, perhaps three or four legions,” said Ethelbert. “Most of them are Yeslnik’s soldiers. There will be no parlay with Laird Bannagran.” His voice lowered as he added, “Just the blood, so much blood.”

  “So much Delaval blood,” added Myrick the Bold. “We will slaughter them at our gates!”

  Cormack tried to digest it all as cheers for the city of Ethelbert dos Entel came from the generals and the two monks. Through it all, Ethelbert, Affwin Wi, and Merwal Yahna stared hard at the emissary couple.

  “Perhaps you should ride north to rejoin your Dame Gwydre at St. Mere Abelle,” said Ethelbert. “If you remain here you will be expected to join with all your heart in the battle against the invaders.”

  Cormack wasn’t quite sure what to say at first, but he was shaking his head, his instincts telling him that this news was not as unwelcomed as Ethelbert believed. “No, I pray you, laird,” he said. “Does King Yeslnik ride beside Bannagran?”

  He looked to Affwin Wi as he asked, and the woman shook her head. “He has run back to his castle,” she replied. “Else we would have left him dead on the trail.”

  “Then this is our chance,” Cormack blurted, his gaze darting from Ethelbert to each of his generals in turn. “We must go meet Laird Bannagran. With all speed, to engage him as far from the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel as possible!”

  “You have gone mad, young brother,” Ethelbert replied, his headshaking generals in obvious agreement.

  “No, laird, this is our opportunity,” Cormack pressed, growing more determined as he sorted through all of the options. “Outside of Pryd, far from home, Bannagran will find his army much less eager for engagement.”

  “You would have me leave my city defenseless against him, while I chase an army more than twice or even thrice the size of that which I might muster?”

  “It would be sheer madness to abandon our walls,” Kirren Howen remarked. “Let the Bear of Pryd Town come on. We will hold him to the field and rain death upon his army day upon day!”

  “Even if what you say is true,” Cormark replied, and he shifted his tone and his intended reply quickly as the scowls came back at him, “even if we hold and slaughter Bannagran’s men, to what gain? What is our plan from there? How shall we seize the initiative from Yeslnik and turn back the pressing tide?”

  “Perhaps your Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan will have that answer, yes?” asked Ethelbert. “If your suggestion is to take such a risk as to ride forth and face them on the open field, then you are mad.”

  Cormack looked to Milkeila for support, and the woman took his hand and squeezed hard again. “We knew this would be a great risk, Laird Ethelbert,” the barbarian woman said. “If not on the field, then we would have had to go to Pryd Town to find Laird Bannagran, and that would have been no less difficult. His march may offer us the option of retreat if we prepare the place of meeting correctly.”

  “We’ve the walls and a protected bay,” said Kirren Howen. “I can think of no better place to make our desperate offer to Bannagran.”

  “Desperate,” Cormack echoed. “And it will seem so if we do it with Bannagran’s army camped outside.” He turned his attention to Laird Ethelbert directly. “I pray you, laird, do not tarry. Meet Bannagran before his goal is in sight, and before he can surmise that your offer of alliance is made of desperation alone. If he believes this to be a last chance for Laird Ethelbert to save his life and his title, then know that he will not be merciful and will not betray King Yeslnik.

  “Go out and meet him, I beg. Bargain from a position of power, not desperation.”

  A wail from the shadows at the back of the room turned all eyes that way, and Cormack crinkled his face as he recognized Palfry, Laird Ethelbert’s beloved attendant. The waiflike man scrambled from the shadows and rushed across to the room’s other door, holding his mouth as if he might throw up with every step.

  “You will go and speak for Dame Gwydre?” Kirren Howen pointedly asked.

  “I will.”

  “Even if we do not?” the general pressed. “If we remain in Ethelbert dos Entel, Cormack and Milkeila will still go forth to meet Bannagran?”

  “I . . . we will.”

  Kirren Howen laughed at him. “He will cut you in half with that massive axe of his.”

  Cormack shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “All that I have heard of Laird Bannagran paints him as a severe but honorable man. An honorable man will adhere to a flag of truce.”

  “You will be killed before you get near to Bannagran,” Affwin Wi said, drawing all eyes to her in surprise. She drew out her sword, Bransen’s sword, and held it up near Cormack. The man held his breath, confused and wondering if her claim meant that she intended to slay him then and there.

  “The Highwayman,” she said. “The man you call Bransen. The man you call friend.” She shifted to face Laird Ethelbert. “My agents run Bannagran’s line, as you ordered. I am not surprised by their words that this man, the Highwayman, walks among the soldiers.”

  Like all in the room, Cormack’s ey
es widened with surprise; Milkeila clutched his hand even more tightly.

  “We welcomed him as an ally and a student,” Affwin Wi said sternly to Cormack. “He has betrayed us.”

  Kirren Howen cursed under his breath and banged a fist on the table. “The Highwayman knows much of our defenses. And now Laird Bannagran knows, as well.”

  “What have you to say to this?” Laird Ethelbert asked Cormack.

  “Bransen is from Pryd Town,” the man replied, his voice shaky. He stammered, trying to continue, trying to find some explanation for this unexpected news—and trying to put it into context with his previous fear that Affwin Wi had murdered Bransen to take the sword and brooch.

  “He would not know,” Milkeila interrupted in sudden epiphany. Everyone looked to her to see her face as puzzled as their own expressions. “About the offer of Dame Gwydre to Laird Ethelbert,” the woman explained.

  “Yes, yes,” added Cormack. “Bransen left St. Mere Abelle before our plans were crafted and even before Abelle was sainted and Chapel Abelle was renamed. He would not know that you, Laird Ethelbert, have agreed to an alliance with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan.”

  “He marches with my enemy,” Ethelbert said.

  “He will kill you in the forest before you get near to Bannagran!” Affwin Wi spat.

  That preposterous line solidified the ground under Cormack’s feet. “No,” he replied. “Bransen would never take up arms against me or Milkeila at the request of any laird or dame or king or father. Nor would he choose battle against Father Artolivan, and certainly not to side with Father De Guilbe. No, I know Bransen much better than to even think any of that a possibility for a moment.”

  “He marches with my enemy,” Laird Ethelbert said again, dryly, and his tone gave Cormack pause.

  Once more, the former monk looked to his beloved Milkeila, and as if she read his mind, the Alpinadoran shaman smiled and nodded for him to press on.

  “This is the time for men of great courage, Laird Ethelbert,” Cormack said. “Better that Bannagran is marching east, further from Yeslnik’s influence, when we go and meet him. He will honor a flag of parlay, and we should all hope that Bransen has engendered his trust. Because Bransen will join with us—of that I am sure. And Bransen is no small voice among the people of Pryd, where he is considered a hero, and among the brothers of Pryd, including Reandu, the master who presides over Chapel Pryd due to Father Jerak’s illness.”