R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

Prydae looked all around and heaved a frustrated sigh. "Make sure that all the wounded and the dead are brought back behind Laird Ethelbert's lines," he ordered. "Then bring our charges all back to the crest north of Ethelbert. A fine fight, but no ground gained."

"No ground lost, either," Bannagran reminded him, eliciting a strained smile from his friend.

And a short-lived smile, as Prince Prydae continued to scan the rocky area. Wet, cold, and aching from head to toe, he was weary of this campaign. The combined armies of Honce had chased the powries to the coast in short order, but it had been day after day and week after week of fighting since.

"One ridge at a time," he muttered.

"That was among the most daring maneuvers I have ever witnessed, Prince Prydae," came a voice that drew both Prydae and Bannagran from their private thoughts. The two turned as one to see Laird Ethelbert walking his warhorse down toward them. He cut an impressive figure on the armored stallion, but it didn't escape Prydae's notice that the old man was not covered in the blood of his enemies nor in mud. Prydae had to wonder if Ethelbert had even drawn his sword. Was there a single nick along its iron edge?

"I grow weary of advancing one ridge and then retreating to the previous," Prydae replied.

"Three forward and two back," Laird Ethelbert agreed, for that was a fairly accurate assessment of their progress over the last three weeks of fighting. "But still, more than a few bloody caps met their end this day, thanks to the daring maneuver of the men from Pryd Holding."

"If Laird Grunyon and his men had closed from the south, more would lie dead."

Ethelbert shrugged. "Night is falling, and it will be a dark one. After this rout, the dwarves will not return before dawn. Take supper with me in my tent this night, my friend Prydae, and pray bring your champion with you."

Prydae watched the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel as he turned and casually paced his mount away. Ironically, it was exactly that steadiness and solidity that for a moment unnerved Prydae. He couldn't dismiss the stark contrast of Ethelbert, in his shining and clean armor, so calmly walking his warhorse past the torn bodies of fallen men, some dead, others grievously wounded, some even reaching up toward him desperately. That's what it was to be a leader among men in Honce, young Prydae decided, the godly separation between laird and peasant, between noble and common. A rare gift it was for a man to be able to shine above the mess, beyond the touch of blood and mud and rain. Laird Ethelbert then stepped his horse right over one wounded peasant and paid the man no notice at all as he went on his way.

Ethelbert was above them, Prydae could clearly see.

The prince thought of the boy who had just died.

A peasant, a commoner.

Prydae shrugged and put the boy's dying words out of his mind. Prince Prydae marveled at how adept this army had become in cleaning up after bloody battles. The Samhaist clerics accompanying the force went about their work with the dead, consecrating the ground in their ancient traditions before burying men of Honce, damning the ground below the bodies of powries, which would be left unburied. All of this was done under the judgmental eyes of the brothers of Abelle, who busied themselves with the wounded, not the dead, using their magical gemstones to bring some measure of relief.

The struggle between the two sects, a battle for the hearts of men, was not lost on Prydae. Nor were the various effects the two sects were having on the common soldiers. Those hopeful of returning home some day seemed to be favoring the brothers of Abelle, but as more and more died on the field, the Samhaists' promises and warnings of the afterlife seemed to be resonating more profoundly among those remaining.

Prydae looked to the west below the defended forward ridge, where screams and moans and sobs came forth continually, and he shook his head in amazement. For not far above the tents of the wounded sat a pair of Samhaists, staring down like vultures. The brothers of Abelle wouldn't give up the corpses easily to the clerics of the ancient religion, but they were too busy with those still living to prevent the taking.

The tug for hearts became a tug for bodies, a battle from birth that tore at every Honce citizen throughout his life, and even after, it seemed.

Neither Prydae nor Bannagran spoke as they crossed from the forward lines to the rear. They entered Laird Ethelbert's tent with little fanfare and, to their surprise, found none of the other lairds within.

Ethelbert smiled widely and warmly, bidding them to enter and to sit opposite him at the opulent-relatively speaking-dinner table that had been set out. To either side of the laird sat his four military commanders, accomplished warriors all, men whose reputations had preceded them to this war.

"I am so pleased that you could join me, Prince of Pryd," Ethelbert said when Prydae and Bannagran had taken their places. Attendants moved immediately to put their food-a veritable feast-before them.

Prydae was too busy staring at the cutlery of shining silver and cut glass goblets filled with rich wine to even answer.

"A proper laird must always take his accoutrements with him," Ethelbert explained. "We owe that to our peasants, you see?"

Neither of the men from Pryd questioned that aloud, though both their faces, especially Bannagran's, asked the obvious question clearly enough.

"What the peasants need from us is the hope that their own lives might not always be so miserable," the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel explained. "Or that their children will know a better existence. That is always the way, do you not understand? A miserable peasant with hope is a miserable peasant placated. We walk a fine line between breaking them altogether, which would lead to open revolt, and teasing them just enough to keep them happily working."

"Happily?" As soon as the word left Bannagran's mouth, Prydae jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

But Laird Ethelbert seemed to take no offense. He grinned and held up his hands.

"There is so much to learn about ruling the common folk," Ethelbert said at length. "I have spent forty years as leader of Ethelbert Holding and still I feel as if my initiation has only just begun. But the people of Ethelbert are happy enough, I would guess, and healthier than those in many other holdings, Delaval in particular."

Prydae perked up at the disparaging reference to the largest and most populous holding in all Honce. Set at the base of the great river that cut the main region of Honce off from the vast northern forests, Laird Delaval's city was more than twice the size of Ethelbert's. The river teemed with fish, the fields to the east of Delaval City were rich and fertile, and the wood brought in from the west allowed the Laird Delaval to build wondrous sailing ships that even Laird Ethelbert had been known to grudgingly purchase.

Laird Delaval's army, and his warships, were battling powries up the coast in the north, and with great success, by all reports. That success of his rival seemed to grate on Laird Ethelbert, from what Prydae could tell.

It all began to make sense to the warrior prince from Pryd Holding. The roads had brought the holdings of Honce closer together, had greatly increased trade and communication between them. Several lairds were rumored to be in secret alliance already. During this campaign, with so many armies marching side by side, Prince Prydae had come to envision a time, in his lifetime perhaps, when Honce would become a united kingdom under a single ruling laird. Of course, that presented the question of who that leader might be.

"We are scoring the greatest victories of all against the powries," Laird Ethelbert went on. "More of the vicious dwarves have died here than in the north, and I attribute that to the finer coordination between our forces." He lifted his goblet in a toast, and all the others followed suit.