R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

He skipped from tree to tree, moving through the shadows and even up in the lower branches as he went. He had been spotted a couple of times on the way out, as indicated by the shouts of distant people, but he thought nothing of it. Now, though, as he neared, he saw several forms moving around the small island: a pair of children and a pair of women, one of about his age and the other older, possibly her mother.

Had Garibond taken a wife?

Bransen swallowed hard, not sure what to make of it all. Were these Garibond's children running about his island? And who was the girl of his own age, for surely she couldn't belong to his father? He moved even closer and rushed past the house to a pile of rocks on the shore, affording him a view of the southern side of the small island. Both women were heading that way, and now he saw why. A pair of men sat on the rocks down by the water, fishing.

Bransen had to consciously steady himself, for neither was Garibond. Where was Garibond? Who were these strangers that had come to his house?

He started forward, thinking to go and ask them exactly that, but he paused, remembering his distinctive garments. It was one thing to be spotted running along the distant fields but quite another to go right up to someone. And if he asked about Garibond, wouldn't he be implicating his father as an ally? He knew not what retribution might be in store for him for his actions at Cadayle's house. Was he to be branded a hero or an outlaw?

He couldn't risk it, for Garibond's sake.

He stayed in place for some time longer, taking a look at each of the six people on the island, committing their faces to memory. If they came into town, he would find a way to ask, he decided, or he would come back out here dressed in his woolen tunic and walking in the awkward guise of the Stork. Yes, that might work. With the gemstone hidden, he could pretend to be the creature that everyone believed him to be.

It was all too surprising and all too confusing, and the sun was low in the western sky. The monks would be returning soon after dinner, so he had heard.

He sprinted back to the west. "Do these problems never lessen?" Prydae said, and he threw down his gauntlets upon the desk, stamped his hands upon the wood to steady himself, then turned his angry look back at Bannagran. "One man?"

Bannagran shrugged.

"One man, unarmed, defeated five?" Prydae pressed. "Five who served with our warriors in the south and are not new to the ways of battle?"

Again, the big man shrugged.

"There were spearmen in the trees, perhaps?"

"There were no spear wounds, my liege," said Bannagran. "Nor were any cut, except Tarkus Breen, who died on his own dagger."

Laird Prydae rubbed his face. Powries were all around once more. Bandits had been seen on the roads to the south and to the west, and now this-a daring attack by a single man against five! Here Prydae was, trying to focus on the titanic events in the south, on the war between lairds Delaval and Ethelbert and the implications to his sovereignty, if not his very survival-and trying to discern how best to collect the heavy taxes Delaval was demanding-and these minor distractions would not lessen at all.

"What of the other four?"

Bannagran shrugged again. "Keerson will not walk again without a limp, but beyond that, they will all recover with time. Except for their wits, perhaps, for they claim the martial prowess of this one to be beyond belief. He was possessed of the strength of ten men, they said, and he fought so quickly that it seemed as if there were three of him."

"They would say that to save their drunken pride, though, wouldn't they?"

Bannagran shrugged.

"Who was it?"

"He called himself the Highwayman."

"Wonderful." Prydae slammed his fists down on the desk.

"He is one man," Bannagran reminded.

"Who defeated five-unarmed when they were not."

"Five staggering drunks."

Prydae nodded, having to accept that.

"Our guests are waiting," said Bannagran. "We should not linger; I doubt that Father Jerak will be able to remain much longer."

"Does he even know where he is?"

"Doubtful. And if we don't get him out of here, it is likely he will shit himself soon enough."

Prydae laughed, then moved to the hearth at the side of the room and pulled the fabulous sword from its perch and slid it into his belt at his left hip. "Lead on," he bade his friend, and he fell into step behind the man who would announce him. Before they even began to descend the stairs of the tall keep, Prydae reached out and grabbed Bannagran's shoulder, stopping him. "We should go out in full splendor in the morning," he said. "It has been too long since I worked my chariot team."

"A show of strength to assure the people?"

"And to warn this Highwayman. Let him realize the terrible end of the road he has chosen to walk." Chapel Pryd was strangely quiet the next day as Bransen went about his chores, collecting the chamber pots and setting them by the back wall. Not a monk seemed to be anywhere, except the one who served as attendant to Father Jerak, and the old man himself, apparently worn out from the excursion of the previous day.

Bransen wasn't using the soul stone, though he missed it dreadfully, as he missed walking straight and missed the sensation of running. Secretly, he never wanted to assume the posture of the Stork ever again. But playing his alter ego, this Highwayman, was physically exhausting to him, and, beyond that, he had no idea of how the brothers might react to his newfound health, nor to his pilfering their sacred gemstone. He had noticed, however, that even without the soul stone firmly secured against his forehead, he was finding a bit more control of his movements with every day. In Jhesta Tu terms, and using Jhesta Tu technique, Bransen was finding more and more solidity to his line of chi. With his meditation and focus, he could form that line and hold it, albeit for only short periods; but even when he was not consciously engaged in such Jhesta Tu disciplines, he found that his line of life energy wasn't dispersing quite as widely and wildly as before.

Given that, Bransen found himself in the strange position of consciously exaggerating his storklike movements. He wasn't quite sure why he should not reveal the changes he was experiencing, but he had a feeling that his cover as a helpless creature would serve him well for the time being.

On his fourth trip to the back wall, a chamber pot sloshing at the end of each arm, Bransen found the six previous pots still sitting there untended and unemptied. He put the two new additions down and looked about curiously. Where was his helper?

Bransen moved back into the main areas of the chapel's first floor and was struck again by how empty the place seemed. Not a brother was to be seen or heard. He staggered through all the main rooms, finding them unoccupied. He went to the front door of the chapel, which was opened wide, and glanced out into the courtyard, with its twin trees, left and right of the cobblestone path.

He was about to go back in and head right up to Father Jerak's attendant to inquire about it all, but then he heard the bells ringing and the trumpets blowing out in the town. Curious beyond any fear of breaking the rules, or of simple good judgment, Bransen moved down the chapel steps and across the courtyard to the open outer gate.

He saw many of the monks lining the main road of Pryd Town. He picked out Bathelais and Reandu among the throng, and it was indeed a throng, with all of the folk out there, waving and cheering. The Stork made his awkward way to Reandu and reached the brother just as the trumpets began to blow with even more urgency.

"Stork," Reandu greeted. "What are you doing out here?"

Bransen couldn't tell if the man was angry or merely surprised. "I-I-I…I didn-didn-didn't kno-kno-"