R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"Seven of ten dead, my prince," a soldier reported, trotting his mount up beside the blood-spattered nobleman. A shriek rent the air, and the pair glanced over to see the surrounded powrie finally go down. When it tried to rise, one of the soldiers guided his horse over and had the beast stomp the dwarf flat.

"Eight," the soldier corrected. "Two have fled to the forest, but we will hunt them down."

Prydae nodded, then moved toward his abandoned chariot. "And what of my people?"

The soldier quickly dismounted so that he would be walking beside his prince and not towering above him. "A few minor injuries," he explained. "One man dropped a heavy stone on his foot as he tried to flee. That might be the worst of it. With all the talk of powries of late, the peasants were well prepared to run away."

"Double the guard along the road," Prydae ordered as he reached the back of the chariot. He paused and reconsidered. "Nay, triple it. We have no need for another display of force anytime soon. The peasants understand that we protect them; their complaints will be fewer. So let us dissuade the fierce dwarves or any other monsters that might be about from even beginning such a battle."

"Aye, my liege."

Prydae waved the man away and pulled himself up into the chariot. The well-schooled team had not continued after he had leaped from it, nor had they veered off the road. Prydae turned them around until he had them trotting back down the road toward the castle of his father.

He kept his eyes straight ahead, a look of "royal calm"-as Laird Pryd liked to call it-upon his face as he guided the magnificent chariot past his soldiers and the gathering of appreciative peasants. The soldiers fell into ranks behind him, adding to his splendor; the peasants called his name, cheering.

Prydae held his royal calm and slowly paced his team past them all. The battle had gone exactly as he had hoped it would. When reliable reports of powries gathering in the area had come to him, along with many reports of grumbling among the workers, he had seen the potential of quelling both problems. And so he had lain in wait with his choice warriors, and with one decisive charge they had defeated the powrie threat as well as the chorus of complaints. And not a soldier was badly injured, and the few injured peasants would likely heal.

It had been a good day's work. Chapel Pryd, a stone structure that could hold nearly four hundred people in its wide and long nave, was only a short walk from the much more dominating stone structure of the holding, the castle of Laird Pryd itself. But to old Father Jerak, the number of required paces to go from one building to the other seemed greater and greater each day.

He could count those paces, too, and easily for the increasing stoop of his back had his eyes looking at his feet, and it was only with increasing effort that he was able to look up. He didn't complain, though, as he and Brother Bathelais made their way up the narrow stair to Castle Pryd's portcullis and then past the guard towers and up a longer flight of stairs to the audience halls of the laird, which were set more than halfway up the tall tower that served as the principal keep.

They were welcomed without question and admitted without formal introduction, for visits to Laird Pryd of the two presiding holy men of his holding were not uncommon and of late had become a more-than-weekly matter.

As usual, Laird Pryd was sitting on his huge oaken throne, its arm rests gilded, its high back bejeweled. He was the same age as Father Jerak, and, indeed, the two had known each other for more than forty years, since the then-young Jerak had been assigned to Pryd Holding after his training in the mother chapel of Abelle, along the coast to the north. Unlike Father Jerak, though, the laird didn't so obviously show his age. He sat straight and tall; and while his hair was now more salt than pepper, and perhaps his blue eyes did not hold their previous luster, he kept his shoulders squared, his jaw high, and his beard and hair meticulously trimmed.

Behind him and to the side stood another aged man, with hawkish features and a scowl that only intensified whenever the monks of Abelle entered the room. Jerak paid Rennarq, Laird Pryd's close adviser, no heed, but Bathelais always took note of that scowl. Rennarq was rumored to be a staunch Samhaist, though not openly, of course.

The two monks moved up before the throne and bowed to their laird. Jerak was glad that Bathelais held his arm, for without that support, he feared that he would have tumbled at Laird Pryd's feet.

"You seem rather tired today, old priest," Laird Pryd remarked, and at his side, his sentry snickered.

"Our work has been long, Laird," Brother Bathelais answered.

"That is the way of things."

Jerak forced his eyes up to meet those of the laird. Whenever Pryd made that particular remark-"That is the way of things"-his tone became dismissive. "That is the way of things," Jerak understood, meant that there was nothing Laird Pryd meant to do to remedy it.

"We have come to discuss the matter of your son," Father Jerak said.

"The matter? Whatever matter my son might have is hardly a concern of yours."

Father Jerak bowed in deference at the not so subtle reminder that he and all the brothers of Abelle were allowed and recognized in Pryd Holding at the sufferance of the laird. Again, the old monk was glad of the physical support of Brother Bathelais.

"He drives the peasants hard, Laird," Jerak said.

"Their work is important."

"We spend all the night with the soul stones, Laird, alleviating their aches and trying to mend fingers cracked from digging and hammering and carrying those huge flagstones."

"I am grateful for your efforts, I assure you. But that is your duty, is it not?"

"Their maladies outpace our abilities to heal them," Father Jerak began to explain, trying to keep his voice steady in the face of Pryd's continuing dismissive tone.

"Winter will come soon enough, we all know, and they will have the quiet months in which to recover."

"My laird-"

"This business only aids your Church, as well, can you not agree?" Pryd interrupted. "My son, serving as my voice, shows the peasants the way to a better life through their toil. That toil begets suffering, of course, and so you serve a heroic and healing role, one that no doubt enamors the peasants of your Blessed Abelle. I believe that my son's tactics serve you well in your continuing duel with the Samhaists for the souls of the people." He offered a smile that sent a shiver coursing along Jerak's spine, and Jerak glanced past him to note the scowl of Rennarq.

"Ah, those marvelous and sacred gemstones," Pryd went on. "So much more convincing must they be when you put them to use in such a practical and helpful manner as healing the injuries and maladies of dim-witted peasants!"

It was a joke, of course, and one that had Laird Pryd and all his guards laughing, but only with great effort was Father Jerak tactfully able to join in.

"Perhaps there is a compromise to be found," the old monk suggested.

The smile disappeared in a blink from Pryd's face. "All the lairds have agreed on the construction of these roads, and for good reason."

Before he could go on, a side door of the audience chamber banged open and Prydae strode into the room, still wearing his battle gear and still with the stains of powrie blood and of his own, where dried blood had crusted on his beard.

"Powries," he explained. "A band on the road."

Father Jerak gasped.

"Our healing skills will be needed at the chapel," Brother Bathelais said.

Father Jerak noted the dismissive look young Prydae turned on the holy men at that moment, a typical response from the prince, whom Jerak believed viewed the Church of Abelle as a rival to the power and wealth of his forthcoming inheritance. No doubt, Jerak supposed, that crafty old Rennarq often whispered disparaging remarks into Prydae's ear.