The Bear

TWENTY-THREE

Merwal Yahna stayed in the deepening shadows as the courier chattered excitedly to the guards escorting her in from the gate.

"From Behr," the woman said, her accent showing her to be from central Honce, likely Pryd Town itself. "And Laird Bannagran held one in his dungeon." She turned, wide-eyed, to the guard on the other side. "But the man escaped and tried to kill Laird Bannagran himself!"

"Laird Ethelbert will hear of this," that guard assured her. "And he will answer Bannagran's demand of accountability!"

Merwal Yahna glanced all around. The castle was in sight, just up the road. He drew out his weapon. He leaped from the shadows.

Just a few moments later, he dragged three bodies into the back of a storage shed and covered them with sacks of grain.

Sleep, my tired love," Affwin Wi whispered into Laird Ethelbert's ear, at the same time her index finger pressed expertly at the artery along the side of his neck.

The old man opened his eyes and tried to sort through this mystery. He had made love to her that night, the first time he had been able to perform such an act in a long, long while. Affwin Wi had given him a drink of powerful herbs to facilitate the act, and they had worked marvelously.

But now, afterward, Ethelbert lay in his bed, his body numb, his arms and legs not answering the call of his thoughts, unable even to speak, to question, to protest.

"Sleep, my tired old lover," Affwin Wi said, a wicked grin on her beautiful face.

Ethelbert stared at her, his expression asking the question he was unable to voice.

"Your day is past," the woman explained. "You have surrendered your ambition. There is nothing more for you." She pressed her finger in harder, and Ethelbert's vision blurred.

"I do this for you," Affwin Wi said.

Ethelbert stared at her for the few heartbeats he had remaining of consciousness.

When he lay still, Affwin Wi knelt, leaned back, and stared at him for a long, long while.

Finally she slipped off the side of the bed and slowly dressed. She was surprised at the heaviness in her heart, pointedly reminding herself that Ethelbert had been a tool for her gain and nothing more.

She had to be done with him now, she stubbornly told herself. He had indeed surrendered his ambition. However the greater war fell out, Laird Ethelbert was determined to be no more than a minor player.

"We should not have pursued the emissaries," Merwal Yahna said, entering from the shadows at the side of the room. He glanced from Affwin Wi to the naked form of dead Ethelbert upon the bed. "You made love to that wrinkled old beast?" he asked, scrunching up his face as if someone had dangled a hill skunk carcass in front of his nose.

"He was a great man, once," the woman replied. "He deserved as much before he died."

"He could have been a great man again had we let him join with Bannagran of Pryd."

Affwin Wi shook her head. They had been through this already, in the discussion that had led her to Ethelbert's chamber that night, aphrodisiac and paralyzing poison in hand.

The pair were running out of options. No doubt other guards at the gate had heard bits of the woman courier's claims.

"I do not wish to return to Behr," Affwin Wi stated.

"Then where? To Bannagran after our minion tried to kill him? To King Yeslnik? Does he know that your sword took the heart of his uncle?"

"Perhaps Kirren Howen will prove more ambitious than Ethelbert," Affwin Wi said. "Perhaps he will seek greater glories, and, if not him, then Myrick or Tyne."

"And when they find the bodies? And when they hear the tale of Ishat and Wahloon?"

"Your good cheer serves me well this night when a man I cared for lies dead before me," the woman sarcastically replied.

Merwal Yahna didn't reply, just stood staring, as did Affwin Wi. Had they truly wound themselves into a corner from which there was no gain to be found? Was the only road left to them a journey back to Behr?

Gradually, Merwal Yahna found himself looking to Affwin Wi for an answer, as he always did for guidance. When a wry smile at last spread upon her face, the man's expression grew anxious.

"The courier," Affwin Wi said. "Deliver her body to this room."

Merwal Yahna's smile was immediate, as the plan came clear to him, for it all made perfect sense. The treachery of Bannagran, sending an assassin in the guise of a courier, would serve them well with Kirren Howen, particularly if they wanted the man to go forth to seek greater glories. It would take a caravan longer to travel from Pryd Town to Ethelbert dos Entel than to St. Mere Abelle, but only because of a winding road through difficult terrain. For Bransen, freed of such impediments through use of the malachite magic, the journey was much easier. Long before dawn, he saw the distant lights of Laird Ethelbert's large seaport, smelled the Mirianic, and heard the crash of waves.

As he lay down to sleep, nestled in the mossy roots of a large tree, he reminded himself of how blessed he was to enjoy such freedom. He, the poor Stork who could barely escape the confines of Chapel Pryd's small courtyard, could now run the breadth of Honce in a matter of days! He, the awkward and unbalanced youth who could be knocked over by the slightest push of a bully, could now challenge the likes of Affwin Wi.

He put his hand into his pouch and felt the various gemstones, connecting with their magic just long enough to identify them, as he tried to sort through the tactics he would need to balance the fight against the woman. Even if Merwal Yahna did not join in-and Bransen believed that he would-Affwin Wi had the advantage here, in no small part because she was in possession of Bransen's own sword. And the brooch. How much had she learned of the gemstone powers? What level of mastery had she attained?

The magical aspect of their upcoming battle was his advantage, he told himself as he drifted off to much-needed sleep.

He awoke early but did not immediately go into the city. As he considered his course, he understood that he didn't want to fight Affwin Wi in there. Too many of her allies could be about him, unseen and waiting for the moment to strike. And even if he won, in Ethelbert's city with so dramatic a victory at hand, he might then have to battle with and escape from half the garrison! Even worse, if he defeated Affwin Wi before so many witnesses-perhaps before Ethelbert himself-then how would he subsequently speak with the laird regarding Dame Gwydre? That, he reminded and scolded himself, was no small part of this mission to the southeast.

Soon after midday, he picked his careful way closer to the city walls, moving steadily east, north of the city, until he came to the rocky shoreline, with the docks in sight south of his position. Laird Ethelbert had relaxed his defensive posture, Bransen recognized all along the way. The immediate threat of Bannagran and Yeslnik had been removed, and so the people of Ethelbert dos Entel had returned to the more mundane and necessary duties of life: working the fields outside the city walls and fishing the waters of the Mirianic. Bransen had spotted few armed soldiers along the wall.

He removed his backpack and produced clothing typical of the region: loose-fitting, well-worn, and weathered. His darker skin tones would serve him well here, for many of Laird Ethelbert's subjects could trace a branch of their ancestry to the southern land of Behr.

Using the malachite to cross inlets of water and to navigate sharp outcroppings of stone, he easily managed to stay far from the occasional fisherman along the shore. Bransen slipped around the corner of the wall, rushed a few steps across the water, and then scrambled up the dock posts to join a throng of fishmongers and customers. Without incident, he arrived at the wing of Ethelbert's castle housing Affwin Wi and the remnants of her dwindling band.

And there, Bransen stood frozen by his doubts. Could he beat this woman, this assassin of Behr? And how could he be taking such a risk as this, with Dame Gwydre, her entire cause, depending upon him to perform those tasks as only the Highwayman could? Who else could deliver Gwydre to Pryd Town so secretly and swiftly week after week?

All of those disturbing notions swirled in Bransen's head and heart until even more profound risks bubbled up in his thoughts. What of Cadayle? What of their child? How could he be so selfish as to take this risk, at this delicate time?

"It is necessary," he whispered quietly. "This must be settled, for the sake of Gwydre's kingdom, for Ethelbert's place." He went silent, but his thoughts continued, And for me.

That was the crux of it. Bransen knew that he could not serve Gwydre, serve the cause, to his fullest ability while this sword-his sword-hung over him, casting dark shadows on all that he had to believe was true.

Like a raindrop on a windowpane, Bransen felt as if he was rushing, rushing downward to an inevitable and inevitably futile end. He could believe in Dame Gwydre's Honce, even in Bannagran's Honce if it came to that. He could take joy in the potential future of his life with Cadayle and their child and with Callen and Dawson, no doubt nearby.

But those were merely pieces in the larger scene of the life of Bransen Garibond, the purpose of his existence, the demands of his heritage. He could not be true to himself, to the identity of the Highwayman, and to the promise of his mother and father-both fathers!-if he did not settle this. He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve, but before he could take a step, a voice from on high assailed him.

"You!" Affwin Wi shouted. Bransen looked up just in time to see the woman lift his sword and leap from the balcony a score of feet above him.

On pure reflex, Bransen flipped sidelong into a cartwheel, then a second, coming around just as Affwin Wi landed in a graceful roll. All around them people turned to watch, and up above Bransen heard the cry of Merwal Yahna.

This is not the place! his thoughts screamed at him, but when Affwin Wi came on he met her charge ferociously. He leaped into the air, leg snapping out once and again. He barely dodged the stab of her sword, as she barely ducked away from the double-kick as she tumbled past him.

He landed and spun, lifting a circle kick as he went to keep her at bay, for the nimble woman was back to her feet almost immediately, reversing her momentum to strike at him again.

Bransen turned and dove back to a garden beside the porch of Affwin Wi's castle wing. He rolled across the dirt between two small trees and came to his feet with the larger trunk, the width of a forearm, separating him from the pursuing Affwin Wi.

She slashed his sword across powerfully, felling that tree.

As Bransen had expected.

As the sword sliced cleanly through, he launched a spinning kick against the severed trunk, knocking it aside. As he came around to face Affwin Wi, who was all too eager to charge into him, he thrust forward his hands, left and right, and launched two fistfuls of dirt into her face.

Bransen retreated into the alley. He leaped up against the side of the castle wall, touching with his right foot, then springing away at an angle to climb higher on the perpendicular city wall, where his left foot found a quick brace to spring him back to the right. Back to the left, right again against the castle wall, and then left yet again, put him to the top of the castle wall.

He had meant to go right over, but a sentry to the left caught his eye, the man just drawing his sword. A leap landed Bransen right before him, too close for the man's reactive swing to gain any momentum. Bransen's left hand caught the man by the wrist, while Bransen punched straight out with his right, his open palm thumping hard right into the center of the poor sentry's chest. The man staggered backward, all strength gone as he tried to draw breath, and Bransen deftly stole his sword.

He heard Affwin Wi in fast pursuit and did not doubt that she would scale as easily as he, though the malachite had enhanced his strides, and so he didn't dally any longer. With a nod of apology to the stunned sentry, he leaped from Ethelbert dos Entel to the foothills and then bounded along with great, floating strides. Shouts went up behind him, arrows flew. But he was too swift, his leaps too erratic, and soon he crossed down to the western plains before the city.

Affwin Wi pursued.

He saw that, welcomed it as he continued to the north in full stride, past the gawking farmers, past the shouts of the city guards, and beyond the reach of the occasional spear or arrow. All pursuers fell far behind save Affwin Wi, and even she could not keep up with his exaggerated leaps, except that he wanted her to. Bransen went around to the north of the city, to the higher and more familiar ground, and eventually came to a bluff from which he and Jameston Sequin had once looked down at Ethelbert dos Entel.

This was the spot, this was the time of Bransen's choosing.

He reached into his pouch and produced his gemstones, sorting them, feeling them, teasing their magical energies. He noted Affwin Wi's determined approach and a second figure, similarly dressed, running hard to catch her.

The doubts began to rise, but Bransen dismissed them.

He was no raindrop wearily dying on a pane of glass; he was the Highwayman, the son of Sen Wi and Bran Dynard, the child of Garibond Womak, the student of Jhesta Tu and of the gemstones of Blessed Abelle.

"You were a fool to come," Affwin Wi said as she cautiously approached.

"You tried to murder Cormack and Milkeila, even Laird Bannagran himself," Bransen retorted. "For so long now I have been wondering about that. What gain, after all, Laird Ethelbert might find in killing two emissaries from Dame Gwydre."

Affwin Wi grinned at him.

"Because it was not Laird Ethelbert," said Bransen. "Not with Cormack and Milkeila, and not with Jameston Sequin. It was you, the murderess of Behr. For a long time that made no sense to me." He tilted his head to regard her curiously. "Why?"

The woman just kept grinning.

"Because you feared the end of the war?" Bransen reasoned. "Because if the alliance had been forged, then both Bannagran and Gwydre would have stood taller than the laird who protected you? Is that why you tried to kill them?"

"And now I will kill you," Affwin Wi promised, and she charged forward, the Jhesta Tu sword leading the way with mighty slashes, weaving and cutting with practiced unpredictability.

The Highwayman cartwheeled to his right, coming up in a defensive posture, his sword back in tight near his shoulder, held vertically, his left hand out in front.

Affwin Wi dove into a roll as he disappeared to the side, came up to her feet, positioned perfectly to execute a swift turn, and closed immediately, cutting at Bransen's leading hand.

He dropped his hand easily under the swing and thrust his sword forward, but with a softened grip so that it caught Affwin Wi's swinging blade as a man might catch a thrown egg. As soon as the blades lay parallel before him, Bransen worked his wrist over, trying to hook his mother's sword and throw it from the woman's grasp.

But Affwin Wi rolled her wrist as well, opposite his, thus engaging the blades more swiftly than Bransen had anticipated, and so her own twist and slide nearly wrenched the sword from his hand!

That he held on was a credit to his strong grip, but Affwin Wi continued her riposte as if expecting that move all along, cutting short the follow-through of the sword throw and stabbing forward, twisting her delicately curving blade deftly to slip it past the cross hilt of Bransen's sword.

The Highwayman felt the sting and saw the blood, but again, his reaction was not far behind the move, and he avoided any major gashing. He reangled his blade and batted it across, rapping Affwin Wi's sword harmlessly.

On she came, cutting and thrusting in a wild and furious routine. The Highwayman fell into his crouch and worked his own blade with equal fervor, metal ringing against metal repeatedly, so quickly that it seemed like the chime of one long bell.

For a short while against the continuing barrage, Bransen tried to recognize the pattern to her movements, tried to sort it among the many routines he had learned in his perusal of the Book of Jhest. Turning his full attention away from the fight was his mistake, he realized when he missed one block and got nicked again on his forearm, then missed a second deflection as Affwin Wi thrust at him.

Bransen ducked desperately, angling to the side, but Affwin Wi's fine blade-his own mother's magnificent sword-sliced the outside of his left shoulder. He stumbled aside and she pursued, and again the swords collided with an impossibly frantic pace.

No longer was Bransen seeking recognition in his opponent's movements. No longer was he thinking of the Book of Jhest. No longer was he thinking at all! Now it was instinct and reaction, a back-and-forth stab and block and slice and parry that had the both of them moving about in hops and starts, forward, sidelong, and back.

Affwin Wi came across with a mighty cut, but the Highwayman's sword was there, vertically blocking.

But the Highwayman was barely holding it!

A look of confusion on her always confident face, Affwin Wi tried to reverse her cut as the blades connected, sending Bransen spinning end over end. Not to fly away, though, but to loop in place in the air, for the Highwayman had cleverly kept exerted just enough counterpressure on the hilt. He stepped his left foot out to the right before him, half turning, and caught the hilt of the spinning sword with a reverse grip in his left hand. Without hesitating, thinking he had won the day, he stabbed a backhand at the woman.

To his amazement, she was out of reach. Recognizing his vulnerability, the Highwayman did well to hide and dismiss his surprise that his clever move had scored him nothing. Not even aware of the action, he fell into the magic of the malachite and sprang up into the air, tumbling sidelong, tucking not at all, and still easily clearing not only Affwin Wi but also the reach of her overhead stab.

As he landed, shifting to face Affwin Wi directly, he found her in a similar spring and twist, now going above and beyond him, her downturned head a dozen feet from the ground.

"The brooch," Bransen heard himself whisper. He was not pleased to learn that Affwin Wi had so mastered the gemstones already!

He leaped again, so did she, and as they passed in midair, higher than a tall man's head, they brought their weapons crashing together, the force of the blow sending both of them spinning sidelong through their descent. But neither stayed on the ground for long, springing away, for now the fight had taken an extra dimension in its deadly dance.

They leaped and somersaulted, spun and lay out horizontally, floating past each other at various angles, striking out at each other each time to the ring of metal and with enough force to turn the combatants.

On one such pass, Bransen, flat out and facing downward after the twist from Affwin Wi's parry, tucked and flipped as he neared the ground. He plated his feet strongly and leaped backward as fast as he could manage, thinking to catch the woman before she could get fully into her subsequent launch.

But Affwin Wi hadn't jumped. As if she had, yet again, been one step ahead of Bransen, the woman landed and released the magic of the malachite in her brooch, grounding herself and coming about, perfectly positioned to catch him in his next flight.

The Highwayman noted it at the very last moment and released the malachite magic, dropping him short of the mark. He managed to lift his sword before him to block another mighty swing, but that, again, was exactly what Affwin Wi wanted. For she wasn't swinging at Bransen but at his blade.

The Jhesta Tu sword hummed as it came across, a thing of beauty, of delicate and powerful silverel metal, wrapped a thousand times over itself so that it only sharpened as it wore down. The Highwayman had no choice but to attempt a powerful block, and the rigid posture and powerful stance worked against him as Affwin Wi cut across with all her considerable strength. He heard the crash of metal; he saw a spark as the blades collided and instinctively blinked and recoiled. He opened his eyes to find himself holding a stub of a blade, two-thirds of its length spinning through the air to the side.

Affwin Wi presented her sword before him, claiming victory. Bransen heard laughter; he glanced sideways to see Merwal Yahna standing there, hands on hips.

Bransen retreated but quickly ran out of room as he came to the backside of the ridge, a sheer drop of twenty feet or more behind him.

"Yes, you can leap away," Affwin Wi said to him as she slowly approached. "But know that I will catch you and kill you!" As she finished, the woman came on with frightening speed, lifting the sword high for a strike that Bransen couldn't hope to dodge or block.

But neither did he retreat. He lifted his hand from his pouch, drawing forth the power of the gemstone as he went. Stronger and stronger, he coaxed that magic forth, charging the stone powerfully by the time his hand was up before him. And then he let it loose. The lodestone, magnetite, snapped from his grasp, propelled by its attraction to the target, the hilt of Affwin Wi's sword. As it struck, the sword went flying, spinning end over end, and three of Affwin Wi's fingers went flying as well. Shock on her fair face, the woman staggered backward. Merwal Yahna cried out but was too far away to help her.

Bransen started forward but stopped short, for Affwin Wi dismissed her shock and pain in an instant, throwing it all out in a primal keen of outrage. She was glowing, too, in a serpentine shield, reversing her footing and charging ahead once more.

Bransen understood her intent and ran away. With the malachite, the Highwayman leaped from the ridge, landing lightly on the nearest branch of a large tree. He caught his balance and turned to see Affwin Wi charging, blazing with the flames of a ruby gemstone! She seemed a living fireball, and elemental creature of searing flames. There could be no escape… certainly none in the flammable branches of a summer tree!

Bransen used his soul stone to stab at her consciousness, to try to distract her in her concentration. At the same time he sent forth a burst, a pulse, like a magical dart, from the antimagic sunstone. But Affwin Wi was still a living fireball, still leaping high in the throes of the malachite, and still screaming. All Bransen could do was drop from the branch in desperation.

Even as he collided with the next lowest branch, not so gracefully twisting about to avoid any serious injury, he came to understand that the pitch of her scream had changed. Only after he negotiated the branch to fall clear of the others and land on his feet beneath the tree did he come to recognize the true source of her new yell.

Agony.

The fiery woman sailed past where Bransen had been standing, collided with the tangle of the tree farther on, and thrashed about insanely as she crashed through that tangle to land at last hard on her back on the ground below.

Bransen's desperate strike with the sunstone had stolen only one bit of magic, the serpentine shield, and now the fires of the brooch's ruby chewed at her furiously. She rolled about on the ground, screaming in agony.

Horrified, Bransen ran to her, desperately patting at the last stubborn flames. He fell into his soul stone and tried to impart waves of healing magic, but when he placed his hands upon the shivering woman, her skin just slipped away.

Bransen fell back in horror and disgust.

A scream so outrageous, so primal, so feral, shocked Bransen back to his sensibilities just in time to see Merwal Yahna charging at him, nun'chu'ku lifted high above his head, its deadly strike bar spinning furiously.

There was no reason to be found on the man's face, no pause and no sanity. In the split second he looked up at Merwal Yahna, Bransen knew that the man, overcome with rage and anguish, meant only to kill him, to smash him dead where he knelt beside the shivering and dying Affwin Wi.

Bransen spotted his brooch and snatched it up from her bubbling skin even as he fell into his own malachite and launched himself away, leaping backward and up into the air, spinning a somersault and landing on a branch some fifteen feet from the ground.

Merwal Yahna ran right to the base of the tree, sputtering curses with every step. Like a crazed animal, he began lashing at the large trunk with his exotic weapon, back and forth, chipping bark with every strike.

"Come down! I kill you! Come down! You die!" he roared.

"Enough!" Bransen shouted back at him after a few moments, during which he placed the brooch against his forehead and felt its magic connecting with him once more. Hardly shifting his hand, he pinned it in place, and he felt its magic coursing through him, energizing him. "This is ended, Merwal Yahna. It is time for us to place our differences behind us and work for the good of our respective lairds and for the good of Honce-"

"Come down!" the bald man shouted, and he rapped the tree repeatedly, his ire showing no sign of relenting. "I kill you!" He kept shouting and swinging. Bransen tried to reason with him, but to no avail.

Finally Merwal Yahna started to climb, and Bransen knew that he would have to fight the man. He shook his head and watched Merwal Yahna's progress. As soon as the warrior reached the base of the branch upon which Bransen stood, Bransen sprinted the other way along it, lifting himself with malachite as he went so that the branch did not bend. Nearing the ridge upon which he had first joined in battle, the Highwayman leaped with all his strength. If he could only get over that ridge, he thought, and back to his sword…

He didn't make it. Despite his great leap, despite his concentration in the gemstone, the distance was too far. Bransen collided with the side of the cliff facing, held on and tried to climb, but the jolt had him dazed a bit; he slid down near to the ground before he finally caught himself.

Too late, he knew, when he heard Merwal Yahna's roar close behind him.

Bransen's focus went to the brooch set on his forehead, focusing on the backing that held the six gems in place. As he turned, Merwal Yahna barely two strides away, the moment of his death surely upon him, Bransen lashed out with all of his magical energy, a complete orgasm of magical release.

The lightning bolt blinded and shocked him as surely as it must have shocked Merwal Yahna. The screams of rage disappeared in the blink of an astonished eye and in the thunderous explosion of power that reverberated for what seemed like seconds. As his vision returned, Bransen saw that the man was no longer before him.

Other than his silken shoes, which lay upon the ground exactly where they had been when Bransen brought forth the stroke. Bransen's eyes scanned back, and there lay Merwal Yahna to the side of the tree trunk, some thirty feet away, smoking and twitching wildly.

Overwhelmed, Bransen staggered to the man's side, and knelt over him, determined not to let this one die. Merwal Yahna would go with him to Laird Ethelbert's Court, Bransen decided, as a witness to the attacks on Cormack and Milkeila, as the murderer of Jameston Sequin.

Yes, he nodded, but even as he did, Merwal Yahna snapped his left hand up and across, cracking Bransen's jaw and throwing him back to the ground. The Highwayman struggled to catch himself and get back to his feet, knowing Merwal Yahna was surely coming on. His right hand grabbed something solid and smooth… a wooden pole, Merwal Yahna's fallen weapon. He rose to a sitting position and jumped to his feet as Merwal Yahna stood on unsteady, trembling legs… but legs steady enough for the raging man to launch himself at Bransen.

Bransen leaped, too, higher and somersaulting and twisting as he went. As he lifted from the ground, he flicked his wrist and sent the nun'chu'ku spinning. He caught the free pole in his left hand, both hands down low as he spun over the stumbling Merwal Yahna. Passing over the man, Bransen crossed his hands violently and powerfully and threw his right shoulder under as he came around, speeding his spin as he fell straight to the ground, taking Merwal Yahna over backward behind him.

For a moment, Bransen thought that a thick branch had broken nearby. Only when Merwal Yahna's heavy, lifeless body fell atop him did he realize that cracking sound was the man's neck breaking under the momentum of Bransen's descent and in the twist of the exotic weapon.

Bransen wearily pulled himself out from under the man and climbed to his feet. He surveyed the two fallen warriors for a long while, deep regret washing over him. How much good might these two have accomplished? Such grace in battle, such skill. He thought that perhaps he should bury them side by side.

Bransen's expression went cold a moment later, though, when he thought of Jameston Sequin. Merwal Yahna had killed his friend and in a most dishonorable way. Not in a duel, and not even face-to-face. Merwal Yahna had punched his nun'chu'ku through a wall and through the back of Jameston Sequin.

Bransen looked down at that exotic weapon now, swinging at the end of his right arm. He slipped one side under his rope belt and put his hands on his hips, again looking from Merwal Yahna to the charred corpse of Affwin Wi.

He remembered Jameston Sequin.

He left them for the vultures.

Using the powers of levitation, the Highwayman went up the cliff facing, back to the field. He found his sword easily enough, but when he bent to pick it up, he stopped fast. For there, too, was the lodestone, set into the weapon's hilt, locking a crushed and torn finger in place. Bransen found a stick and managed to pry both gemstone and finger loose. He held the sword up before his eyes, staring at the marvelous hilt, an intricate design of ivory and silver fashioned into the likeness of a hooded serpent.

It was marred now by the impact of the lodestone, a deep blemish on one side of the serpent's tapering neck. Pangs of loss flooded Bransen, to think that he had damaged his mother's perfect sword, this devoted and loving work of art.

He grasped the blade as he would in battle and moved it through a series of thrusts and defensive parries, blowing a great sigh of relief to realize that the balance remained perfect. He could feel the indentation, but it was a smooth dent, one that cradled his middle finger perfectly as he swung the blade about.

He had put his mark on his mother's sword.

Bransen looked back toward the city of Ethelbert dos Entel. Now it was time to put his mark on Dame Gwydre's budding kingdom. Thank you for seeing me, but I would speak with Laird Ethelbert directly," Bransen said as he stood before the general, two younger commanders flanking him and a phalanx of sentries ready to swarm on his word.

"You claim to have knowledge of the war's events and to speak for Dame Gwydre," Kirren Howen replied. "Why would we not entertain you?"

"I left your fair city under less than perfect circumstances."

"You were chased out," said Myrick, one of the younger generals, and Kirren Howen and the other general, Tyne, flashed scowls his way, pointedly reminding him to remember his place here.

"And now I have returned to you," Bransen replied, staring at Myrick through every word. He turned back to Kirren Howen. "To Laird Ethelbert. You have heard of Dame Gwydre's many victories in the north?"

"I have heard that she manages to stay one stride ahead of Milwellis of Palmaristown. I have heard of no decisive victories other than her defeat of Laird Panlamaris."

"A series of minor wins, since then," Bransen admitted, "but accumulating into something more profound. The name of Dame Gwydre is whispered from the lips of every villager in the north of Honce now and always with joy and reverence. Milwellis of Palmaristown grows more frustrated every day, his army more weary and homesick. But not so for Dame Gwydre's army, for they believe in their cause, in her cause."

The generals absorbed the information, but all three seemed strangely detached to Bransen.

"She will win," he said confidently.

"Laird Bannagran refused our offer of alliance," said Kirren Howen. "You were there, as I recall, among his ranks."

Myrick and Tyne crossed their arms over their chests at that remark, and for a brief moment, Bransen almost expected the three to charge at him.

"And so I was surprised to hear that you had returned to our city, speaking for Dame Gwydre," said Kirren Howen. "Do you fight for both sides, then?"

"I am Gwydre's man, fully," Bransen asserted. He didn't know it then, of course, but that proclamation had just saved his life that dark day in Ethelbert dos Entel. "The situation with Laird Bannagran remains unclear," Bransen went on.

"Yet you marched with him, coming toward our city." There was no missing the accusatory tone.

"I marched for reasons personal and surely not for King Yeslnik, whom I despise."

"And we are to trust you?"

Bransen smiled and bowed. "The situation in Honce has changed. I came to inform you of those changes, for know that Dame Gwydre will win this war. Where will Laird Ethelbert and your city fit in when that occurs, I wonder? But of course, that is for him to decide."

"Where is Bannagran?"

"In Pryd Town with his thousands. He does not march forth."

"Where is Gwydre?"

Bransen had to hide his grin, for he almost blurted out (simply to see the looks on the faces of the younger generals) that she, too, was in Pryd at that time. "Laird Milwellis would ask that same question, for she is everywhere and nowhere all at once."

"You will answer his question!" Myrick demanded.

"I have delivered my message to you, though I wished to speak directly with Laird Ethelbert," Bransen said.

"That we cannot allow," Kirren Howen insisted.

"Then relay my message, and, with your permission, I would take my leave."

"Your message?" the general echoed skeptically. "You came to tell us that Milwellis was chasing Gwydre all about the northland, and that we already knew."

"I came to tell you that the war is turning in Dame Gwydre's favor. You should know and understand that. She offered you friendship and alliance, and you accepted. Such a bargain demands reciprocity."

"What? She would have us come forth while Bannagran sits in Pryd Town with a force thrice our garrison?"

Bransen shrugged. "I have delivered my message. I will go." Before anyone could respond, the Highwayman bowed and quickly took his leave, and though a couple of the sentries near to the door bristled as if to impede him, Kirren Howen waved them to stillness.

Bransen was glad to be out of there, and very glad that he had left the sword and brooch hidden beyond Ethelbert dos Entel's walls. All he had wanted to do was to put a whisper into Laird Ethelbert's ear to entice him to look more closely at the war, perhaps even to entice him forth that he could bring more pressure on King Yeslnik's forces.

That's what Bransen tried to tell himself as he crossed through the city. He couldn't help but grin, for the cryptic reference to personal reasons for his march with Bannagran was not by accident.

He wanted Laird Ethelbert to know. Surely the man was wondering even then where his assassins might be, given that Bransen was back in town, and surely the man had heard some tales of the pursuit by Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna that had driven a strange man from town earlier that same day. No doubt Ethelbert had realized him to be the fugitive in question when he had so unexpectedly appeared at the man's court.

Ethelbert's generals had done well not to tip their hand. They hadn't mentioned the rumors of a chase, nor had Kirren Howen brought his assassins into the conversation at all, but surely they all were wondering.

Yes, Bransen could say with a good measure of honesty, he had gone to Ethelbert dos Entel for the good of Dame Gwydre's cause, but he wouldn't hide from the personal pleasures the visit had offered to him. When they found the bodies of Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna, not so far from the city walls, he wanted Laird Ethelbert to know that he, the Highwayman, had slain them both.

He retrieved his items and purposely moved again near to Ethelbert dos Entel's western gate, even saluting one guard with the fabulous, famous sword, tipping it to his forehead where he had replaced the brooch.

Bransen smiled when the guard rushed back into the city, no doubt to shout the news.

He wanted Laird Ethelbert to know. By the old ones, it is a dark day," Tyne said when Bransen had gone. "He did it, along with the woman," Myrick asserted. "We should catch him and flay the skin from his bones! Such treachery should not-"

"Enough, Myrick," Kirren Howen said. "Affwin Wi slew the woman even as she murdered Laird Ethelbert. The Highwayman was not there. Do you believe that he could have eluded Affwin Wi so completely?"

"And where are Affwin Wi and Yahna?" Myrick demanded. "Chasing someone from our walls, yes? The Highwayman?"

"If it was the Highwayman, then Affwin Wi would have dragged him back to the city at the end of her sword," Tyne insisted.

Kirren Howen rubbed his face, feeling very old and very tired. He hadn't even buried his beloved laird yet, hadn't even let the word go forth that Ethelbert was dead, and the nonsense of so many possible conspiracies did not sit well on his shoulders at that grim time.

"Enough of this useless conjecture," he told them both. "We must decide what is best for Ethelbert dos Entel. Laird Ethelbert would demand no less of us."

A guard burst into the chamber. "General!" he cried, gasping for breath.

"What is the meaning of this?" Myrick asked.

"He has her sword!" the guard exclaimed.

"What?" all three commanders said in unison.

"The Highwayman," the guard explained. "He has Affwin Wi's sword!"

Kirren Howen's face went blank. The world had just grown more confusing and more dangerous.