The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  The messenger blanched, fell back a few steps, and said no more.

  “We must go to the aid of the towns,” Harcourt reasoned. “With the armies in the field, they will be defenseless against the bloody caps.”

  “Palmaristown has a garrison in place,” said Panlamaris, for indeed they had left the place defended.

  “But the smaller towns . . .”

  Panlamaris turned his glower over his old friend, and at first it seemed as if he was going to simply dismiss the smaller towns as unimportant. But then a crack appeared in the mask of rage that was Panlamaris. “Go then,” he said to Harcourt and his son. “Leave me with just the catapult and porter crews. Lead the rest to the coast and sweep it clear, Palmaristown to Delaval.”

  “You will need more than that if the monks come forth,” Milwellis interjected.

  “They’re cowards and they’ll hide,” Panlamaris replied. “Get me every villager in Weatherguard and every town about and put a helmet on their every head. The monks need not know of your march.”

  Milwellis looked to Harcourt skeptically, but the old laird shouted at them both, “Go!” and they dared not disobey or tarry.

  As soon as night had settled on the land, Prince Milwellis, Father De Guilbe, and more than three-quarters of the eight thousand soldiers who had settled outside of St. Mere Abelle were on the road, marching hard for Palmaristown and the coast. The old and angry Laird of Palmaristown watched them go and then dismissed them. His focus remained on the chapel up the long and grassy hill, and his catapults continued to throw throughout the long night.

  He would stay and punish Gwydre and Artolivan.

  Never comfortable in spirit form, Brother Jurgyen willed himself along at great speed, wanting to be done with this duty as swiftly as possible. He ran atop the waters and had no corporeal form out here that could be harmed, of course, but still he imagined great monsters lurking beneath the dark gulf, ready to swim up and devour him.

  So it went for a long while as he made his way. He passed some Palmaristown warships, giving them a wide berth as they glided westward in full sail. He thought nothing of it until he came upon a second battle group, similarly rushing back to the west.

  Had they, perhaps, discovered the Vanguard flotilla?

  Nervous but determined, Brother Jurgyen moved swiftly to catch up to the ships and drifted upward, floating above the taffrail of one. He dared not approach, for several sailors stood there, sharing a drink. He could feel the invitation of their corporeal forms, the soft and dangerous invitation and allure of possession.

  He remained cautious but knew that he would not be serving Father Premujon and Dame Gwydre well if he did not try to discern the reason for the Palmaristown westward sail.

  Their chatter was mostly the gutter talk of bored sailors, but one phrase leaped out at the spirit of Brother Jurgyen: “The river’s full o’ powries!”

  Jurgyen spent a long time trying to sort that out as he continued north across the wide Gulf of Corona, but when he happened upon a third battle group, this time flying the flag of Delaval, and saw that they, too, had turned westward and put up full sail, it all came crystal clear to him.

  The monk reversed his course, flying back toward his waiting body in St. Mere Abelle with all speed. He approached the towering walls in a matter of moments, for the return was always much easier than the journey from the body, but as he neared he instinctively veered aside and moved past St. Mere Abelle.

  For Jurgyen remembered the earlier siege and how it had broken.

  Brother Jurgyen opened his physical eyes a short while later and pulled himself up from his kneeling position. He turned so fast and exited the small chamber with such urgency that he actually broke one of the hinges on the fragile door and stumbled to one knee in the small hallway.

  He didn’t care. He ran screaming for Dame Gwydre and Father Premujon.

  They all gathered immediately, so important was Jurgyen’s tale. It was two hours past midnight, but not a one in the room, not Gwydre, Dawson, Premujon, Giavno, Pinower, or any of the others in attendance, showed any signs of sleepiness.

  Not after what Brother Jurgyen had told them.

  “This is our chance,” Dame Gwydre said, her eyes sparkling with hope.

  “A dozen brothers across the water to tell the Vanguard flotilla to sail forth with all speed,” said Father Premujon. “If they arrive quickly enough we can shatter the Palmaristown siege.”

  Dame Gwydre shook her head. “Yes, send the brothers forth,” she replied. “And Lady Dreamer, too, will sail out, guided by brothers and their gemstones to meet the ships and guide them to a safe berth east of St. Mere Abelle.”

  Dawson nodded eagerly.

  “But we’ll not wait the days for the reinforcements to arrive,” Gwydre explained. “We’ve three hundred veterans in our midst and brothers mighty in the use of gemstones.”

  “Panlamaris is still more than a thousand strong by Brother Jurgyen’s guess,” Father Premujon replied doubtfully. “We’ll be under catapult fire the entire way through the gates and down the hill.”

  Gwydre’s sly smile told them all that she had already figured that problem out. “We’ll not walk out the gates, father,” she said.

  Brother Giavno began to laugh, and all eyes turned his way.

  “As Brother Pinower escorted Dawson to us,” the monk explained.

  Looks of confusion mixed with many nodding heads and grins of understanding.

  “You cannot be thinking . . .” Father Premujon started to argue.

  “Oh, but I am,” said the Dame of Vanguard.

  That very night Dawson McKeege bade Callen Duwornay farewell again, took the arm of Brother Pinower, and went across the dark waters to the west. Six other monks accompanied them to ride with Lady Dreamer and go forth from her deck as spirit-walking scouts guiding the journey across the gulf. At the same time, Brother Jurgyen and a host of other brothers went out in spirit, running across the gulf to find the Vanguard flotilla and instruct them to sail south and also to mark the movements and positions of the many Palmaristown and Delaval warships sailing westward about the gulf.

  When that was accomplished and Brother Pinower returned the next morning with news that Lady Dreamer had put out, the more immediate planning went into full swing.

  FOURTEEN

  United Against the Other

  “You cannot expect me to take him or his proposition seriously,” Bannagran said to Reandu. “Ethelbert wears his desperation clearly. He is afraid and knows the war is soon to end, and so he tries to turn us to his cause. He has nothing else to play.”

  “His cause is Dame Gwydre’s cause,” Master Reandu reminded.

  “Father Artolivan’s, you mean,” said Bannagran. Reandu straightened at that, unable to dispute the simple truth of it. His belief in Father Artolivan and St. Mere Abelle was surely his disadvantage in his dealings with Bannagran, but so be it. Master Reandu would not disavow the church whatever the personal cost of fealty.

  “You would have me join with Ethelbert,” Bannagran accused. “You would have me turn the army of Pryd about and assault King Yeslnik for the sake of Laird Ethelbert and your church.”

  “Do you think Yeslnik a more deserving king than Laird Ethelbert?” Reandu asked bluntly. “Truly?”

  “I think that the ways of the world do not ask my opinion.”

  “The ways of the world asked neither Delaval’s nor Ethelbert’s nor Yeslnik’s opinion!” Reandu shot back. “No divine angel swept down and told Delaval to claim the throne. No just and good god would ever ask that of the idiot Yeslnik!”

  Bannagran’s stinging slap staggered Reandu back several steps. He held his balance, somehow, but came up holding his aching jaw and staring at the Bear of Honce incredulously.

  Several times Bannagran—who seemed as horrified as Reandu—started to respond, but each time he just growled and scowled and shook his head.

  “You cannot speak of the King of Honce such,” Bannagran fin
ally explained, though it sounded hollow, even to him. “I have pledged my fealty to him.”

  “You have often called me friend,” Reandu countered.

  “And you make it a difficult proposition ever.”

  “If I am your friend, then I must be able to speak my heart to you,” said Reandu. “And I did.” He rubbed his jaw again pointedly.

  Bannagran glanced around to see a couple of groups looking over at him and Reandu curiously. They couldn’t hear the conversation, but they had no doubt seen the slap. The Laird of Pryd scowled at those onlookers fiercely until they retreated beyond the nearest tree line.

  “I know the treachery you plan,” Bannagran whispered when he was certain they were very much alone. “You are encouraged by the arrival of Laird Ethelbert. I know that you will flee at the first opportunity with those brethren you have brought, and Ethelbert’s men will no doubt rejoin him.”

  “They will not,” Reandu replied. “On their word. They are out of the war as they promised. Laird Ethelbert’s arrival here does nothing to change that.”

  “We shall see,” said Bannagran. “And if not to Ethelbert, then they will go with you to your home chapel, to the side of Father Artolivan, where your loyalty truly lies.”

  “I’ll not deny that,” said Reandu. “Never have I. I am a brother of the Order of Blessed Abelle. It is his path I follow above all others, and that path leads me to St. Mere Abelle and Father Artolivan and not to Father De Guilbe. The man is a godless opportunist, who has placed personal power and glory above the call of the order.”

  “Many believe that would make him a wise man.”

  “A coward!” Reandu insisted. “Throughout the short history of our order, brothers have sacrificed their lives before renouncing Blessed Abelle. I expect no less of myself.”

  “Because you expect a reward in the afterlife for your grand sacrifice,” said Bannagran. “The Samhaists would not agree.”

  “No,” Reandu replied. “No, my friend. It is not for the afterlife or the promises of Abelle, great though they are, and indeed I do believe them. No, it is the principle of behavior that I place above even that promise. The greatest gift of Blessed Abelle is the promise of better lives for all men if all men followed the tenets of his order. The greatest promise is brotherhood joined, is common gain for common cause.”

  Bannagran began to laugh, and that gave Reandu pause.

  “You truly believe that?” the Laird of Pryd asked.

  “Enough so that if you present me with the choice of abandoning my course or feeling the mortal bite of your great axe, I will suffer the blow.”

  “So you say until the axe hovers above your neck.”

  “So I say until my voice is quieted forever.” Reandu straightened his shoulders with his proclamation and stared at Bannagran unblinkingly.

  For a moment it seemed as if Bannagran would respond, but the powerful man just snorted and walked away, shaking his head with every step.

  Master Reandu breathed a sigh of relief.

  “He is right, you know,” came a voice from above, and Reandu, startled but not surprised, just closed his eyes and sighed.

  Bransen dropped to the ground in front of him. “Your idealism is foolish, childish even, in light of the darkness that has come to Honce.”

  “And without that idealism, my life would be empty,” Reandu replied.

  Bransen stared at him doubtfully.

  “You are to judge me?” Reandu asked. “You, who thought yourself a murderer and nearly destroyed all that you have achieved in that ridiculous self-deception?”

  The simple truth of that reminder had Bransen back on his heels.

  “Bransen the assassin,” Reandu said dramatically, every syllable dripping with sarcasm. “The rogue Highwayman who kills without mercy!”

  Bransen pushed past the embarrassment and shrugged off the insult. “Once I believed as you claim,” he replied. “And then Garibond was murdered.”

  Bransen had reversed the conversation and now it was Reandu settling into a defensive posture.

  “And I dared to believe again,” Bransen went on. “And then Jameston Sequin was murdered. Bitter experience tells me that you chase a fool’s road as Bannagran declared.”

  “Bitter disappointment has weakened your heart and your resolve, you mean.”

  “You call Father De Guilbe a coward, but you say it from the shadows. Why did Reandu not so declare that to Father De Guilbe back in Pryd Town, I wonder?”

  “Because to invite such wrath would be foolish and counterproductive to the cause I serve,” the monk replied without the slightest hesitation. “And because other men depend upon me to lead them to safety, and I would not throw that trust to Yeslnik’s ill justice. And yes, Bransen, Father De Guilbe is a coward and an immoral opportunist who sees a chance to usurp the power of rightful Father Artolivan.”

  “And, thus, Bannagran of Pryd must also be a coward,” Bransen reasoned.

  “A cynic,” Reandu corrected.

  “They are the same by your definition.”

  Reandu considered that for a moment, then nodded. “And so is Bransen Garibond, too, a coward?”

  “Will he abandon you in your glorious cause, you mean?”

  Master Reandu didn’t blink.

  Bransen considered his own words for a short while, then pulled the soul stone from his forehead and reached into his pouch to collect the other magical gems Reandu had given him. He held his hand out to the monk.

  “You cannot bring yourself to profit on the blood of innocents,” Reandu replied, making no move to take the gemstones. “And so, since you know that there is no personal gain for you here, you determine that this is no longer your fight. Bransen will run away.”

  Bransen did not retract his hand.

  “You can run from this fight, Bransen,” Reandu said. “But you cannot run from yourself. The gemstones are yours, forevermore. I grant them to you without demand, but with expectation that one day you will admit the truth to yourself.”

  Very slowly, Bransen pulled back his hand. He didn’t want to accept the stones, but he knew that without them he would have no chance of defeating Affwin Wi and retrieving his sword or the brooch. Without them he wouldn’t likely even traverse the many miles to get back to his wife.

  “I am done with this war,” he stated flatly. “To you I am a coward, then.”

  When Reandu didn’t immediately reply, Bransen turned and walked away. “You are the bravest man I have ever known, Stork,” he heard Reandu say softly behind him, and the weight of that, along with the tender reference to that helpless creature he had been, nearly cut Bransen’s legs from under him.

  But stubbornly the Highwayman kept going. He didn’t slow until he was long out of the encampment, far up the northern road.

  Who is that?” Bannagran asked Reandu as they watched the approach of Laird Ethelbert and his entourage. It was the same group as the previous day but with the notable addition of a man dressed in the colors of King Yeslnik. He wasn’t chained, but the look on his face and his position between the dangerous man and woman from Behr spoke volumes regarding his status.

  When the group turned onto the lea, the warrior woman grabbed the prisoner hard by the wrist and twisted until a grimace appeared on his face.

  Bannagran glanced all around at the many warriors and archers he had prepositioned. Unsure of how Laird Ethelbert would take his refusal of alliance and knowing now that the man had brought his assassins with him, Bannagran had duly prepared for all possibilities.

  “A gift?” Bannagran asked. “A prisoner exchange?”

  “A man we found wandering the road,” said Ethelbert. “Searching for you.” He turned to Affwin Wi and nodded, and the fierce woman shoved the poor and obviously terrified man forward.

  “To recall you,” Laird Ethelbert went on. “He comes with word of a powrie army swarming out of the Masur Delaval and laying waste to the riverside settlements. We had to take him captive, of course. I have a
particular fear of spies in these dangerous times. Surely you understand.”

  Bannagran looked from Ethelbert to the courier. “It’s true, Laird Bannagran,” the man said with an obvious Delaval accent. “Hundreds of the little rats, and oh, but they’ve killed a few and more.”

  “Your King Yeslnik’s kingdom is being assailed before it can even be formed,” Ethelbert added.

  “King Yeslnik bids you return with all speed—and with his army,” the courier added. He glanced back at Ethelbert, who nodded for him to proceed. From his belt he produced a rolled parchment and handed it over to Bannagran. The seal was broken, but the two halves very much resembled the wax press of King Yeslnik.

  Bannagran handed it to Reandu, who pulled it open and read it quietly to him. “. . . with all haste,” Reandu finished a few moments later.

  Bannagran paused and let the news sink in. “Convenient for Laird Ethelbert,” he said at last. “To turn me away with your city gates nearly in sight.”

  Ethelbert looked to the courier. “Perhaps the old ones, or Blessed Abelle, favor me,” he admitted. “But surely I have no love of powries, and this is not my doing.”

  “I cannot disagree,” Bannagran replied, but he added the caveat, “if this man is who you claim, and if his words are true. Else, it is, indeed, your doing.”

  “Then you will march back to my gates even angrier,” the old laird said sourly.

  “There are more couriers, laird,” the captured page interjected. “Most riding east along the road. They should reach the end of your long line this very day, if they have not already.”

  “And then you will turn for home,” Ethelbert reasoned. “Only to turn back yet again and come against me once more, I expect. I do believe you will kill half your men simply from marching while my army rests and prepares.”

  Bannagran stared hard at him but did not respond.

  “Or we could march beside Laird Bannagran,” Cormack offered. “Joined in common cause against the powrie marauders.”

  Both Ethelbert and Bannagran looked at Cormack as if he had surely lost his mind.