R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Bransen finished dressing in the black outfit his mother had brought from Behr, finishing by tying the torn strip of fabric over the distinctive birthmark on his one bare arm.

Bransen took up the fabulous sword, holding it reverently before his eyes as he studied the intricate vine and flower designs etched into its gleaming blade. The weapon had no equal north of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, and few swords even of the Jhesta Tu mystics in Behr could match its quality. Staring at the marvelous blade, Bransen was reminded that he would one day go there, to the Walk of Clouds, to learn from the masters.

He slid the sword into its sheath and slung it across his back, then took up the saddlebags full of Yeslnik’s treasure and tossed them over his shoulder. He moved to the room’s small window and peeked around the heavy curtain, considering the setting sun.

“The privateer captains might be ashore,” Cadayle said.

“I will find them,” Bransen promised, and Cadayle and Callen nodded, neither about to doubt this man who had delivered them from a life of misery beneath the boot of Laird Prydae.

He went out in the dark of night, hand-walking down the side of the two-story inn so fluidly that anyone looking on would have thought he was using a ladder.

The Highwayman didn’t need a ladder.

He didn’t bother with the bustle he heard emanating from the many taverns along the wall separating the two city levels, reasoning that if the privateer captains were in one of those establishments, they would return to their ships in any case.

He found the docks nearly deserted, with only a couple of slaves swabbing the planks halfheartedly, and with no dockmasters to put whips to their backs. Bransen paid them little heed as he moved through the shadows along the wharves to the smaller docks and the tiny boats. He secured one without incident and floated out from the wharf, gently paddling as the current caught him and dragged him along. That current took him toward the moored privateers, for the tide was receding in the gulf, which meant that he merely needed his oars to steer the craft, and not noisily row it.

He kept glancing back over his shoulders, locating the dark silhouette of a mast protruding into the night sky, and appropriately angled his oars, drifting slowly, slowly, and in no hurry whatsoever. He brought the rowboat up against a mooring line and tied it off there, then gathered up his bags and, with a quick check to ensure that his precious sword remained secure in its sheath, the Highwayman began his climb.

A few moments later he came over the rail, silent as death, dark as night, and carefully paced about the deck, seeking sentries and the general lay of the ship. He’d never before been on a ship and had never even seen one up close. It took a lot of his concentration to resist losing himself in the experience, for truly this craft was a work of art, so sleek and beautiful and ultimately functional. He studied the many ropes, climbing and disappearing into the mass of rigging. Many generations of sailors had perfected this design one rope at a time, he understood immediately, recognizing in general fashion the evolution that had led from simple, single-mast boats to this intricate and wondrous threesail design.

He found a raised cabin aft and quickly discerned, from the shouting within, that the man inside carried great authority, and was likely the captain of the vessel himself.

Or herself, Bransen realized as he sidled up to a small window beside the forward-facing door and peeked in.

She stormed about a decorated desk, a rolled parchment in hand, a red bandanna tight about her head, with dark brown tresses flowing out behind and halfway down her back. She wore a puffy white blouse gathered about her slim waist and unbuttoned far enough down to be quite revealing with her every sudden turn. Black breeches and high boots completed her outfit, along with a dirk on her right hip, a curved sword on her left. She was not an unattractive woman, surely, and carried about her an aura of competence and danger.

He had come in late in her tirade, and she seemed too upset to speak in complete sentences, apparently, but it wasn’t hard for the Highwayman to fathom the gist of her rant: the nature of the deal offered by Laird Panlamaris, representative of Laird Delaval.

“Five months o’ sailing!” she cried. “Five! And feedin’ a full crew and a hundred hungry soldiers to boot. And that through a gulf full o’ powries! E’er ye seen a powrie, boy? Nasty little redcap hungry to open yer belly and tug out yer guts! Might that he’ll eat ’em right there while ye’re watch…”

She stopped and stared, mouth agape.

“Do go on,” the Highwayman bade. “I admit that my own experiences with the wretched powries are rather limited, but from what I’ve seen, I’ll not contra…”

The woman drew out her sword and leaped for him, thrusting for his throat.

But his own sword appeared in his hand, as fast as a blink, and he easily and gently guided her stabbing blade aside so that it poked into the jamb of the open door. She kept coming, and reached for her dirk, but there, too, he beat her to the quick, and the sailor grasped at an empty sheath!

The Highwayman held her stolen dagger up before her astonished eyes. He edged the privateer back at the point of her own dirk.

“Good lady, you have no fight with me,” he said, and he flipped the dagger, catching it by its tip and presenting it back to the sailor.

She stared at him for many heartbeats before grabbing the presented hilt and yanking the dirk back from the intruder. She presented both her blades in a defensive stance as she continued to size up the stranger, clearly unsettled.

The Highwayman calmly replaced his sword in its sheath across his back, and the privateer seemed all the more frazzled.

“Who ye be?” she demanded.

“An independent rogue,” he replied. “Much akin to yourself, I would expect.”

“Ye’re to lead with insults?”

“Hardly, milady. I hold my head with pride and would expect no less from you and the worthy sailors of these fine ships-ships flying under the flag of neither Ethelbert nor Delaval.”

“We’re in Palmaristown, which has thrown in with Laird Delaval.”

“No doubt because Laird Delaval has shown the deeper pockets.”

The woman tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes.

“Or because you believe that he will win out in the end and see a brighter future for those who do not oppose him,” the Highwayman bluntly added. “In either event, I salute you. I hold nothing but respect for any who can thrive in these dark times. I hope you will come to see me equally worthy of your respect.” As he finished, he pulled the saddlebags off his shoulder and tossed them at the privateer’s feet.

The woman glanced down at them, but immediately lifted her gaze back to the surprising man in the black mask.

He shrugged.

The woman hooked her saber under the flap of the nearest bag and with a deft flick of her wrist, severed the tie and pulled open the flap in a single, fluid movement. A few coins rolled out, and several jewels showed, and despite her best efforts, the woman’s eyes flashed with obvious interest.

“If you came to bargain, what a fool ye be to lay out the ante openly, and with yerself surrounded by potential enemies,” she said.

Again he shrugged, so confidently, and the smile showing under his black mask clearly said that he believed he could rather easily retrieve his treasure.

“What army serves ye?” the woman demanded.

“I am independent, and I offer no threat to accompany my gift to you, good lady. I came here to present you with these coins and jewels, stolen from the castle of the Laird of Delaval himself.”