R. Salvatore - The Ancient

The standing one died first.

The Highwayman charged at another, and as soon as it recognized him, his black mask and outfit, it shrieked and threw up its hands in a pitiful defense.

Feeling another troll rushing at his back, he leaped high and spun, coming around to circle-kick the defending troll with a sweeping strike that spun it out to the right. In midair, he flipped his blade from his right hand to his left, and allowed the momentum of his turn to guide the strike as that fabulous and decorated sword of wrapped metal plunged into the troll’s chest. The Highwayman retracted immediately and flipped the blade back to his right in a reverse grip, and stabbed out with a backhand as he came fully around, timing it just right to slash across the chest of one pursuing troll, and send the second pursuer stumbling backward.

He flipped his sword to right his grip as he rushed past the bleeding troll, launching a heavy left-hand blow to lay the dying creature low as he pursued its backpedaling companion. That one, shield and small sword in hand, brought both up to block, but the man drove on, smashing away with abandon, his sword too fine for the meager defenses. A piece of shield went flying away, a piece of troll arm following. The blade of the troll’s sword fell free to the ground, the head of the troll fast following.

The warrior known as the Highwayman skidded to a stop to catch his breath and survey the field. Only one concentration of trolls remained intact, a group of about twenty formed into a tight wedge on the far side of the fighting.

Behind the black mask, the man narrowed his eyes.

Twenty trolls.

He yelled and charged.

And he kept yelling, demanding their attention. A spear flew at him and he snapped his sword across, knocking it harmlessly aside. He caught a second hurled spear with his free hand and threw it down. He turned sideways, still moving forward, and leaned back, letting a third slip past, then angled and dove into a roll, under a fourth, and came up in a leap, above the fifth missile.

The volley grew more concentrated and coordinated, a barrage of rocks flying out at him.

He yelled in rage, in glee, in sheer ferocity, his sword and free hand working wildly as he turned and ducked and leaned, and he came right through the volley, showing not a scratch.

The troll wedge formation, appearing so formidable just a few heartbeats before, broke apart, the creatures running away from this madman they also knew by many names, all inspiring terror.

The closest one, then second, then third, fell in rapid succession to his flashing, marvelous blade, and he continued the chase for a long while, though he only scored one more kill, to drive the group far from the field.

He was angry at being out here, angry at being tricked, angry at being away from his beloved, but Bransen couldn’t deny the elation of this furious fight against an irredeemable enemy.

All of that anger flowed into his arms, bringing them strength and speed.

And no amount of troll blood would satiate him.

You did well in tricking that one,” Brother Jond Dumolnay said to Dawson McKeege as they watched Bransen dance away in pursuit of the fleeing monsters. The monk continued his work on one of the wounded Vanguardsmen as he spoke, pulling open the man’s tunic to reveal a gaping hole in his chest, blood gushing forth. Jond took a deep breath at the imposing, horrible sight and went to work with his soul stone, summoning its healing powers to try to stem the flow.

“It was for his own good, as much as our own,” McKeege replied, more than a little defensively. “Your church would have turned the man over to Laird Delaval, and he’d have been sacked with a snake, to be sure.”

Brother Jond continued his prayers, paused and looked at the continuing flow, then went back to his prayers-but only momentarily, for he saw the bleeding stem and nodded in relief that the man was now somewhat stable. Jond sighed and rocked back on his knees, dropping his bloody hands on his thighs.

“They would have sacked him?” he answered McKeege, and both of them knew the conversation to be a necessary and very welcome diversion. “Not if they understood his skill with the blade! They would have sent him posthaste to the south to do battle with Laird Ethelbert, I’d wager.”

“The whispers have it that this Highwayman rained particular embarrassment upon Prince Yeslnik, one of Laird Delaval’s favored nephews. No, if Delaval had gotten his hands on that one, Bransen would not have had the chance to prove his worth-and I doubt he’d have battled for Delaval. He had a bit of a run-in with the Laird of Pryd-word’s that he killed the man.”

“Laird Pryd himself?”

“His son, Prydae. You’re knowing them?”

“I know-or knew-the father,” Brother Jond explained.

“And?”

“Probably deserved it,” Brother Jond admitted with a helpless chuckle. “If the son was much like the father, I mean.”

Dawson McKeege gave a laugh at that, hardly one to disagree. By his estimation, most of the lairds of Honce, titles handed down through generations, weren’t of much worth, which of course only made him appreciate his beloved Dame Gwydre, that notable exception, even more.

“Here comes your new champion,” Jond said, indicating the returning Bransen. “It will take the Masur Delaval itself to wash the blood from his blade, I fear.”

“Bloodier with every battle,” Dawson agreed.

“A dozen huzzahs for Dawson’s wit,” said Brother Jond.

Bransen approached, looking at Jond. When he took note of Dawson, though, he veered suddenly, his face growing very tight.

“It is appropriate for a returning fighter to report his findings to his commander,” Dawson reminded.

Bransen stopped and stood very still for a few heartbeats, composing himself.

“In fact, you should consider it required,” Dawson pressed.

Bransen slowly turned to regard him. “The beasts are in full disarray and retreat,” he said. “They’ll not return anytime soon.”

“Good enough, then,” Brother Jond interjected lightly, his favorable relationship with both men serving to diffuse the obvious tension. “Myself and my Abellican brethren near the limit of our magical energies. Another assault would see less magical tending of the wounded, I fear.”

“Curious,” said a voice from the side, and all three turned and nearly gasped to find Dame Gwydre sitting astride her roan mare. “From all that I have heard of Brother Jond, I would be certain that he would find more energy within himself, somehow, some way, if a man lay wounded before him.”

“Milady,” said Dawson, stumbling to his feet. “When did you arrive on the field?”

“Be at ease, my friend,” she replied, waving him back.

“You are much too kind, Dame Gwydre,” Brother Jond said, lowering his gaze.

“I only hear the whispers, good brother,” she replied. “I do not create them. Your reputation overrides your humility, and all of Vanguard is blessed and pleased that you are among us.”

Despite himself and his sincere humility, Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a wisp of a smile at that.

“And you,” Gwydre said, addressing Bransen. “The Dancing Sword, is it?”

“That is not my name.”

“It is Bransen Garibond,” Dawson said, shooting a scolding glance at the impudent young warrior. “Or perhaps he prefers the Highwayman, the name attached to him for his misdeeds in the South, the name for which he would have been sacked or hanged by the neck.”

Bransen smiled at the man, more than willing to take that bait. “The Highwayman will do, indeed.”

“Your exploits are not unnoticed… Bransen,” said Gwydre. “When this is ended, should you choose to leave Vanguard, I promise that my note of appreciation and pardon will accompany you, though whether the Southern lairds would honor such, I cannot say.”