R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

SenWi wondered then if the roads of other empires had crossed this land of Honce, ravaged by time and swallowed by regrown forests. She expected as much.

She fell asleep comfortably in Bran's tender embrace that evening, her vision of the stars above and thoughts of eternity taking her to a quiet and peaceful slumber. Like all Jhesta Tu, she had trained her body to remain alert to external stimuli even in the deepest sleep, and she awakened sometime near midnight to the distant sound of coarse laughter, drifting on the summer breeze.

SenWi extricated herself from her husband's arms and slowly rose to her feet, staring off to the north, toward Pryd. She saw the flicker of a torch through the trees, perhaps halfway to the firelight glow showing in the windows of Castle Pryd. The commotion and new lights were somewhere down by the end of the road, she figured.

She heard Dynard stir and crawl over beside her, where he wearily rose to his knees. "What is it?"

Some more laughter filtered through.

"A party?"

"No," SenWi quickly answered, for she recognized that there was little joyful mirth in that grating sound. It was more taunting and wicked in timbre. "Not a party."

She began to dress, and not in the flowery white clothing she typically wore through the days, but in a black suit of silk-the dress of a nighttime hunter.

"You mean to go down there through the darkness?"

"In this instance, the darkness might prove our best ally," she replied in a grave voice. She started off down the northern side of the hillock, pulling her silken shirt about her as she went.

Dynard grabbed his clothes and rushed after, not wanting to lose sight of SenWi in the night. The woods could be confusing and disorienting, he knew, but he knew, too, that his wife could find her way unerringly.

A few minutes later, the monk found himself crouching behind a bush beside SenWi. She motioned for him to hold his place, and she crept forward toward the flickering torchlight and harsh-toned conversation. The hairs on the back of Dynard's neck were standing on end now, for he could recognize the language of the speakers, if not the words, and knew them to be powries.

He felt SenWi tense before him, then he moved past so that the scene came into view. A group of five powries stood at the end of the road, prodding, poking, and taunting a young woman, naked and battered, who had been strung up by her wrists, her feet a foot off the ground.

One powrie said something Dynard could not understand, and the others began to laugh.

"Ack, but ye're a pretty one, ain't ye?" the spindly-limbed little dwarf then said to the woman, speaking in the language of Honce. She didn't even groan in response, just hung there, twisting slowly and seeming very near to death, if not already there. The powrie poked her naked belly, sending her into a little swing, and the others laughed again.

"Pretty and with bright blood, eh?" the powrie said, and with a sudden movement, the dwarf brought a knife up and across the inside of the woman's thigh, opening a large wound. Now she did cry out, softly and pitifully, and she tried to wriggle away, but the powrie caught hold of her and slapped his beret against the flowing blood.

The other dwarves hooted.

SenWi leaped out of the brush, bringing forth her magnificent sword.

"Be gone from here!" she commanded.

The powries stared at her for just a moment, then howled and lifted their own weapons.

SenWi's sword spun over in her right hand, went behind her back, and reappeared on the other side, and she thrust her left hand forward, taking the powrie with the fresh blood on its beret in the side and sending it away with a shriek. She retracted her sword immediately, then flashed it left to right, parrying a swinging powrie axe. SenWi let go and left the sword out there, engaged with the axe, as she spun a tight circle, catching the blade back in her right hand as she came around. Using her momentum, she slid the blade hard across the axe and thrust ahead, forcing the powrie to suck in its belly and scramble back.

SenWi couldn't finish the move, for another powrie came in hard at her side. Across went her sword, slashing the tip from the iron-headed spear and forcing the newest attacker into an overbalanced posture.

The other powries came in hard. She spun and she leaped, kicking out and punching as often as thrusting her sword. Blades came at her from every angle, but she bent and swerved, dodged and parried, with precision. Brother Dynard had hardly registered that his wife had even moved! Still crouched in the brush, he tried to make sense of this whirling and furious combat before him, tried to call out to SenWi. But he couldn't hope to find his voice, and didn't know whether to cheer or to scream in terror at the wild melee, the slashing swords, the ring of metal.

Up SenWi went above a pair of thrusting spears, and she kicked out, scoring solid hits on the faces of each attacker. But the dwarves didn't fall, and one of the tough creatures even began to laugh at her.

Dynard knew that he had to help. As wondrous a warrior as SenWi was, she couldn't hope to win against five powries!

He started to come forth, but stopped cold, wondering what in the world he might do. He had no weapon, and even if he had, Dynard understood all too well that he was no match for the average powrie. He scrambled about, his eyes glued to SenWi's continuing flurry, and finally settled one hand into his belt pouch.

Dynard brought forth the smooth gray stone and held it up before his eyes.

The soul stone. Her fighting was completely defensive now. SenWi ducked and turned from weapons that came in at her from every side. The dwarves coordinated their attacks well, leaving her little opening, but one of the five was lagging, she noted. In her initial attack, she had hit him hard, her sword digging a deep wound. He was trying to keep up with his four friends, but his thrusts shortened every time, as he winced and curled over that torn side.

SenWi wanted to focus on him and finish him off, but the other dwarves had her turning continually. She leaped over one swiping axe and threw her leg out wide to avoid the stab of a spear. As she landed, she brought her forearm up to accept the smack of the spear she had beheaded, for the dwarf was now using it as a club. As her arm connected, she shoved it out wide, then stepped in and stabbed at the dwarf with her sword.

But again, she had to pull up short and spin to deflect the charge of another, the dwarf lowering his shoulder and trying to bowl her right over. She hit him with three short jabbing punches to turn him, then crossed hard with the snake hilt of her sword, cracking his jaw.

The tough little creature staggered backward but did not fall. Brother Dynard chanted and clutched his soul stone, trying to find his concentration and his center, seeking his chi so that he could send it fully into the swirling gray depths of the magical stone. He heard SenWi's breathing, heard the growls of the ferocious dwarves.

He heard his love grunt as a powrie connected with the wooden shaft of its spear, and he opened his eyes.

He snapped them shut immediately and concentrated again on the issue at hand. He couldn't go out there physically, he knew, for his appearance and incompetence would likely hinder SenWi more than aid her. Thus, he had to go out there spiritually. He had to find his center and free his spirit through the use of the soul stone.

The sounds of battle grew distant suddenly, and Dynard felt as if he were falling through cool water. And he was standing there, looking back at himself, on his kneeling physical body.

His spirit turned and willed himself forward into the fray. He denied his trained revulsion as he approached one powrie and accepted the invitation of its corporeal form.