R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

With silver coins ready for the passed basket, Garibond thought. He turned his gaze from the useless Brother Reandu and slowly rose. He continued to limp slightly as he made his way out of the chapel, then hardly at all through the rest of the town. Once past the gates, Garibond picked up his pace steadily until he had broken into a run, propelled by fear more than anything else.

SenWi was gone. Dynard was gone.

Leaving him with a child to raise, at least until the following winter. Brother Bran Dynard huddled under his heavy cloak, bringing his hands to his chest. He had wrapped his fingers in fur, but that was hardly sufficient against the biting cold wind. Head bowed, leading a donkey, the monk plodded along. Only a week out from Pryd, with perhaps a hundred miles behind him, Dynard had found that winter had not yet let go. All the shady areas near the road were still covered in snow, and the road itself was icy in many places. More than once, Dynard had slipped and fallen hard to the ground.

All that he had thought about when leaving the chapel was SenWi and Garibond. She would be close to delivering the baby now, he knew, if she had not already.

How he wanted to go to her!

But he could not, for he had left Chapel Pryd escorted by soldiers-Prince Prydae had arranged an escort to the northern edge of the holding. Even after that, Dynard had been aware of eyes watching his every move, scouts for the prince and for Father Jerak, no doubt. If he turned in the direction of Garibond's house, he would give it all away.

Thus he had continued along the northern road, hoping only that he would reach Chapel Abelle and be done with his business quickly.

"Ack, ye let me have yer cloak then," he heard a harsh voice cutting asunder the smooth notes of the wind. Dynard straightened and looked up, left and right; and as one patch of blowing snow thinned before him, he saw a diminutive but undoubtedly solid figure standing in the road.

"Ye give me yer cloak now," the powrie-for of course it was a powrie-said again.

Brother Bran swallowed hard. He kept as still as possible, but his eyes darted all around. Where there was one powrie, there were usually more.

"Come on then. I'm freezing me arse off out here," the dwarf insisted, taking a step forward. "Ye let me use the cloak a bit, and then I'll let yerself wear it in turn, and both of us'll get through this wretched storm. Come on then."

Poor Dynard didn't know what to do. He thought of attacking the dwarf, but his hands were so cold he doubted he could grasp a weapon.

He knew that he shouldn't trust a powrie, but still…

This was not a normal circumstance.

Dynard reached up and undid the tie about his neck, then pulled the cloak back from one shoulder.

"There ye go, giving me a good target," said the dwarf.

Dynard didn't see the sudden movement, but he saw the spear flying his way. He tried to dodge or duck, but he was too late.

The spear drove into his chest.

He was only half aware that he was sitting. He was only half aware as the dwarf pulled his cloak from him, laughing.

He was only half aware when the dwarf wiped its beret across the bloody wound in his chest.

Then the powrie kicked him in the face, but he didn't feel it.

All he felt was the cold wind, slowly replaced by the colder chill of death. Part II God's Year 64

Taming Honce Heavy rain poured down, ringing against the metal armor and running in sheets across the steep slopes of the rocky coastline. Bright flashes of lightning rent the air, their accompanying thunder reverberating through the stones.

Prydae looked down across the jagged, blood-soaked rocks and shook his head, his long brown hair flying. The warriors had dislodged the powries again but had gained only a few score yards of ground. The dwarves had merely retreated to the next defensible high ground in this up-and-down terrain of one fortresslike stone ridge after another. And there they were digging in, no doubt, and preparing the next ridge after that one for their next retreat, forcing the humans to battle for every inch of ground.

Bannagran walked up beside his prince and dropped a trio of berets at Prydae's feet. "You claim them as your own, my liege," he said.

Prydae looked at his dear and loyal friend. Bannagran was a giant of a man, not so much in height, though he was several inches taller than the norm, but in girth. His shoulders were nearly twice as wide as Prydae's-and Prydae was no small man-and his bare arms were as thick as a man's thigh, with the corded muscles one would expect on the hammer arm of a blacksmith. His black hair was long and dripping in the rain like Prydae's, and though he tried to keep his beard short and his cheeks clean shaven, as was the style of the day, the long days and difficult conditions were allowing that beard to get away from him. Even with that scraggly look, however, Bannagran kept a youthfulness about him, with a broad and often-flashed toothy smile and cheeks that dimpled. His face often turned red, either in mirth or battle lust, and that set off his dark eyes and eyebrows, which seemed, really, like a single thick line of hair.

Prydae glanced down at the berets. So Bannagran had killed three more in the latest fight; he was making a reputation for himself that would resound from one end of Honce to the other before this campaign was done. Who could have known the prowess this warrior would come to show or the strength? In the early days of their adventuring, a few years before in Pryd Holding, Prydae had always outshone his friend. No more, the prince knew. Prydae was more than holding his own, despite the loss of his prized chariot and fine horse team in the first week of fighting, but Bannagran had caught the notice of every laird in attendance, and no champion wanted to challenge this one.

"Take them," the warrior said again. "More than a few here're complaining openly about the mud and the rain and the shit and the blood. They're needing a hero to keep them steady on the line when them dwarves come back at us-and you know the vicious little beasties will do just that."

It was hard to argue with that. Prydae looked around, following the moans and sharp shrieks of the wounded. So many wounded and so many dead. The folk of Pryd Holding who had accompanied the prince on this journey to the eastern coast had been away from home for more than two years now-and nearly half, at least, would never be returning.

"Bloody caps coming!" came a cry from far to the right, and Prydae and Bannagran looked down the line to see a wave of dwarves swarming over the crest of a stony ridge and charging toward the human line. Archers let fly, but their barrage hardly seemed to slow the fierce dwarf advance. Prydae scooped the three berets and tucked them into his belt in plain sight.

"Right beside you, my liege," said Bannagran, and he moved in step next to Prydae.

The prince was glad of that.

"They're going against Ethelbert's line," Prydae remarked as the dwarves bunched together at the base of one ravine and began scrambling up. Above them, the men of Ethelbert Holding threw rocks and launched arrows, but the dwarves growled as one and pressed through the volley.

"Take the men down," Prydae said suddenly.

"My liege?" came the surprised response.

"Bring the men of Pryd into the gully. We'll cross below the fighting and when Ethelbert drives the powries back, they will find the metal of Pryd Holding blocking their retreat." Prydae turned, a tight grin on his face. "Yes, they'll have the high ground coming against us, but they'll have no coordination across their line."

"Yes, my liege," Bannagran replied, and Prydae recognized and understood the hesitation in his voice, but also the loyalty. Bannagran immediately began calling the men of Pryd to order.