The Bear

THIRTEEN

On shaky legs the men carried the boulder, the tenth they had brought across the field this morning. Arms ached; fingers had long ago blackened from blood blisters where rocks had fallen upon them. They had to stop but could not, for Laird Panlamaris was ever watchful and full of rage and ire, more than ready to deal out harsh discipline. The catapults had to keep throwing stones, all the day long, and if the porters had to travel farther to gather the stones they needed, then so be it.

Laird Panlamaris's only response to their complaints was to tell them to run faster.

Milwellis watched it all with mounting concern. Day by day by day his father had grown angrier and more obsessed with Dame Gwydre. She was the cause of it all in his bloodshot eyes. She had unleashed the powries upon his beloved Palmaristown.

"Hurry with that missile!" the laird shouted at one crew struggling to get a large, unwieldy boulder up the rise from Weatherguard. "The beam is set and ready to throw! Be quick, I tell you, or you'll feel the cold iron of my sword!"

The flustered and exhausted porters tried to pick up their pace, but they grew uneven in their strides and the support poles moved too far apart, dropping the stone to the grass where it began rolling back down toward Weatherguard.

"Idiots!" Laird Panlamaris yelled, drawing out his sword and starting down the hill.

Milwellis cut in front of him to block his advance. "Father!" he yelled. "Father, no!"

Panlamaris brushed him aside and kept marching toward the crew who were now scrambling desperately, trying to reset their carry poles under the runaway boulder.

"Your point is made, laird," General Harcourt said from the side.

Panlamaris looked to him, as did Milwellis, regaining his balance. When they, too, looked down the hill to see the crew working frantically, finally hoisting the boulder once more and double stepping up the hill toward the waiting catapult, they understood Harcourt's meaning.

"You're thinking that I was making a threat to get them moving," said Panlamaris. "Might be that I was just thinking of killing one of the fools."

"Father, I beg-" said Milwellis, but he stopped abruptly when the laird fixed him with a threatening glare.

"That witch Gwydre set the beasts upon Palmaristown," Panlamaris said in a low and wicked tone. "Upon your home!" He threw his sword down at the ground, where it sank in halfway to the hilt. "Your home! Powrie rats in your home!"

He spun about to see more than a few of his bedraggled warriors staring at him wide-eyed from afar. "Every catapult's throwing!" he cried. "Fill the damned place with stones!"

"I know, Father, but…" Milwellis said, advancing, but when he got within reach, he found his voice choked off as the old and large laird grabbed him by the throat with tremendous force.

"Your home!" Panlamaris screamed in his face. He shoved Milwellis back again. "I don't want you begging," he said. "I want the witch Gwydre begging. On her knees and begging. Aye, but I'll take her good then. I'll have her every way a man can, and when I'm done with her I'll spit on her and kick her and cut her open chin to mound." He narrowed his eyes as he stared hard at his son. "Now get those porters running and get those damned catapults throwing, or I'll put you in the damned basket and fling you against the chapel wall."

Milwellis blanched and fell back another step, not knowing what to make of this demon that had once been his father. Truly, he had never seen Panlamaris so out of sorts, so full of outrage. He looked past the man to the always levelheaded Harcourt, and the general seemed almost embarrassed and equally perplexed.

"Go!" Panlamaris shouted, and Milwellis staggered away.

"My laird," Harcourt dared to say a few moments later. He walked up to his old friend and lowered his voice so that no one else could possibly hear. "Prince Milwellis is a fine progeny. He has made a great name for himself and for the line of Panlamaris."

"I will have that witch," the seething laird replied.

"It would not do to embarrass Milwellis in front of the men he has so finely commanded," Harcourt warned, and then he, too, fell under Panlamaris's withering gaze.

But the laird said no more. He tore his sword free of the ground and stalked away. Very soon after he was screaming at another crew of porters he deemed too slow with the stones, though the exhausted men seemed as if they would simply collapse where they stood.

Laird Panlamaris would hear none of it. The catapults kept their frantic pace; that was all that mattered to him. She was a fair thing, barely past her tenth birthday and full of life and love. Work on the farm was hard, to be sure, even for the child, for her father and older brother were off to war, and she and her mother and her aunts had to keep the gardens tilled and weeded.

But she was happy when she went to her chores in the field outside the small town of Greenmeadow. It was a beautiful summer day in the pretty town of trees and pastures with the silver snake of the Masur Delaval glistening in the west. On a clear day, the high walls of Delaval City could be seen far to the south, particularly if there had been a morning rain and the white stones of the great city glistened with wetness.

Not today, though, for the clouds lay heavy, and every so often a gentle mist drizzled about her.

That didn't diminish the young girl's smile. She skipped across the small field to the far planting, hoping to collect some squash in the basket she carried. She paused before she got there, puzzled by the sight of someone amidst the crops. She thought it another child, perhaps her age, for he stood about the same height as her, though his limbs and torso were much thicker.

"Hey, buy'a'mule," she called, using the nickname her father had often tagged on her, a gibberish word created for the sake of an old joke about silly children running errands to the town's common market.

The other fellow stopped and turned about, and she grew even more perplexed, for he was indeed her height, but his face was hairy like an adult's, and his clothing was most unusual.

She didn't know the significance of a powrie beret. She had never heard of the bloody-cap dwarves.

She was smiling until the very instant a serrated blade cut her throat.

All along the eastern bank of the Masur Delaval the powrie barrelboats slid onto the sand, the eager dwarves pouring forth, knives in hand. Mischief had transformed to open war, and in a powrie war there were no innocents and no civilians.

The goal was to kill anyone and everyone they encountered, to murder people in their sleep, if possible, to chase them down through the fields and forests and slay them, all of them. Their orders were to avoid the large cities of Palmaristown and Delaval and to focus instead on the many small villages, most no more than clusters of three or four homes. Sweep the rural areas of humans, chase them to their great cities, and then slip away to the waters of the great river, the Gulf of Corona, and the Mirianic Ocean. They would strike and strike again, along the river, the gulf, and the seacoast.

They would pay back the humans for staking powries on long poles outside of Palmaristown.

A thousand dead would not sate their bloodlust. Ten thousand dead would not sate their bloodlust. Ten thousand dead human children would not sate their bloodlust. The counterweight fell, the wheels spun, and the long arm of the trebuchet creaked and groaned and swung, launching the rock through the morning air. The crew cheered as soon as it was away, certain they were on the mark this time. Sure enough there came the sharp retort as the stone exploded against the thick and unyielding wall of St. Mere Abelle. As one the artillerymen turned to regard Laird Panlamaris, who stood, scowling as always of late, and staring at the chapel with hatred etched upon his old face.

Not far away, Prince Milwellis clapped his hands in salute to the crew, the first who had actually hit the distant chapel in more than a day.

"More!" Panlamaris barked. "Knock them into the sea!"

"Easy, my laird," said General Harcourt, standing beside him. "There aren't enough rocks in all of Honce to knock down those walls."

"There are, and we'll bring them," Panlamaris growled at him. "And we'll throw, hour after hour, day and night, until the place falls or fills. I'll have that witch."

"King Yeslnik bids us merely to hold the siege," Harcourt reminded him. For all the day, he and Milwellis had tried to gently nudge the outrage away from Laird Panlamaris. They had never seen the man in such a state, and his anger did not seem to have any end.

"I'll not be taking advice from the likes of the boy Yeslnik," Panlamaris replied. "I'll let him play at king, but only because of the gains to Palmaristown and only because he's better than the witch up that hill and better than Laird Ethelbert. So we'll do as he asks-as long as it's what we're wanting. Now I'm wanting more than to sit here and wait while that witch who sent the powries to Palmaristown rests easy."

"She is not resting easy," said Harcourt. "The siege will play upon her sensibilities, as will the occasional throws of the catapults."

"Occasional?" Panlamaris said incredulously, angrily.

"To weaken their walls and weaken their resolve," the general tried to explain.

"Every day, dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn, like the cadence drums of a tireless marching army," Laird Panlamaris insisted. "When Vanguard falls, what will Dame Gwydre think, I wonder? When Ethelbert is pushed into the sea, how maddening will our thunder sound to Father Artolivan and his fellow fools?"

"Might they come forth?"

Panlamaris shrugged. "If they do, we will kill them. If they do not, we will go in and kill them."

Harcourt winced at that notion, as did Milwellis, who had come over to join the pair. They had both heard the story of the last attempted assault on the chapel, and it had not gone well. With their gemstone magic the monks had turned the Palmaristown charge into a fast and desperate retreat, one that left many Palmaristown soldiers dead on the field.

"Our spearmen and archers could not reach them behind their walls, but oh, how their magical bolts reached down at you," Harcourt dared to remind the laird. "Would you shed more Palmaristown blood against those impregnable walls? Please, laird, I beg of you to let Chapel Abelle be their prison, then, while King Yeslnik conquers the world around them. And let it remain their prison."

Panlamaris began a stream of curses at Artolivan and the monks then and didn't stop until long after, when Father De Guilbe walked over to join them.

"I thought you'd be halfway to Delaval City this late in the morn," Milwellis greeted. The priest had traveled from Pryd only to deliver King Yeslnik's report with plans to be out the next morning to begin organizing the new Church of the Divine King from the streets of Delaval City.

"I do so enjoy watching the great stones thunder against the foolishness of Artolivan," the large monk answered. "When I am properly seated within Chapel Abelle, perhaps I will leave our boulders scattered about the walls and courtyard to remind my brethren forever that the church cannot exist outside of the state, that we are linked by divine providence to the King of Honce."

"You'll be rebuilding the place from rubble," Laird Panlamaris promised.

"Artolivan angered you greatly," Prince Milwellis said knowingly, for whatever institutional and philosophical reasoning De Guilbe tried to put on his betrayal of the church, it was clear that De Guilbe's grudge was personal. Had he been shown the degree of respect he believed he had earned, he would never have left Artolivan's side.

De Guilbe couldn't maintain his scowl against the simple reasoning. "There is that, yes," he said dryly.

A commotion in the distance, down the western road and away from the chapel, caught their attention.

"Your coach?" General Harcourt asked.

De Guilbe just shook his head and continued staring at the approaching wagon, rolling along at great speed. He could tell from the sheer recklessness of the driver that something was amiss.

Even as the wagon crossed the first line of sentries, calls of "powries!" echoed throughout the vast encampment.

"Damn her," Panlamaris muttered under his breath but loud enough for them all to hear.

The three waited as a group that included the driver came running toward them.

"Powries!" one man yelled. "An army of the beasts, crawling out of the river, all the way to Delaval City!"

"By the old ones," Milwellis groaned. "Not again."

Laird Panlamaris shook his fist at St. Mere Abelle and cursed Dame Gwydre.

"You are recalled, laird," the messenger explained. "King Yeslnik would have you sweep the riverbank clear of the beasts, while the warships put down their barrelboats."

"My fight is here," Panlamaris said.

"King Yeslnik…" the messenger started to argue, but Panlamaris fixed him with a hateful glare and interrupted.

"If he speaks another word, put him in a catapult basket and throw him at Gwydre," the laird commanded.

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.