R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"Never mind," said Brother Reandu and he put his hand on Bransen's shoulder to quiet him. "Perhaps it is better that you came out. You should see the glory of Laird Prydae revealed!" As he finished, he pulled Bransen forward and helped him settle in place right at the road's edge. He even helped Bransen to steady his head and look toward the castle, where the procession had begun.

First came the soldiers of Pryd in their full regalia, bronze armor dully shining in the sunlight. They carried long spears, holding them vertical, gleaming tips up high and in perfect alignment with one another, showing the splendor of the discipline of these best-trained soldiers of Laird Prydae. The laird's various commanders walked along the side of the tight formation, calling orders and warning back any peasants who stepped too far out from the roadside.

Bransen watched in amazement as the procession paraded by, boots thumping the ground in unison.

Behind the common soldiers came three horsemen, including one Bransen knew well enough in the center. Bannagran seemed even more huge and more imposing on his armored mount! And clearly the legendary warrior commanded the attention of all the onlookers.

That is, until the man behind him appeared. In a chariot more grand than the one he had lost in the war all those years earlier, and with a team of two large and strong horses, Laird Prydae seemed the most splendid of all. He wore a new breastplate, replacing the many-nicked one that had gone off to the powrie war. This one, again of bronze, and again emblazoned with the running wolves, was studded with jewels that caught the sunlight in bursts of radiance. He wore an open-faced helm with a horsetail-like plume, dyed red. But armor, helm, and chariot seemed not to matter much when he drew forth his shining steel sword. He held it aloft and the crowd gasped and cheered and as one pointed at the marvelous weapon.

That sword could cut through a plate of bronze armor, so it was rumored, and it could fell a small tree with a single powerful stroke. That sword, it was whispered all around Bransen, would keep the powries at bay and make any imperialistic-minded laird tremble at the mere thought of warring with Pryd Holding.

That sword…was the sword of Bransen's mother.

The emotions sweeping through Bransen as he watched the procession and the proud laird were very different from those of the people around him. They saw inspiration; they showed awe. But for Bransen, there was only the sudden realization that this sword did not belong with the Laird of Pryd. This sword, his mother's sword, was his own to claim.

And so he would, he determined, and that very night.

When the chapel monks had all settled into their beds, the Highwayman, dressed in black, a soul stone pressed against his forehead by his tight mask, slipped silently out of Chapel Pryd and moved through the shadows to the wall of the great castle itself.

Bransen watched the wall top for signs of sentries, trying to spot their dark silhouettes against the moonlit sky. All seemed quiet.

He fell into his meditation, recalling the lesson in the Book of Jhest, recalling the day he had spent at the desk when first he had taken the soul stone. He considered the many revelations of the various gemstones, recalling the properties of malachite. Bransen gathered his chi and lifted it, replicating the levitational energy of malachite. He felt almost as if he were floating, though of course he was not. But he was lighter, his life energy battling against the pull of gravity.

Bransen lifted a hand to the stone wall, found a slight fingerhold, and propelled himself upward. Hand over hand he went, easily and spiderlike, needing no more than the ridge between two stones to provide him enough of a grip to move past.

He reached the top of the wall in short order and glanced all around. With no guards in sight, he moved silently along the wall to the point where it joined with the large keep. This tower was Prydae's own, Bransen had learned from various discussions among the monks over the years, and so this was likely where he would find his mother's precious sword. Again, he fell inside of himself and lifted his energy skyward, walking up the wall.

He passed one window and peered in, but saw nothing of interest in the candlelight. Up higher, he decided, and he moved along. As he neared the next window, this one along the back of the tower, he heard voices from within.

"A fine show, my liege," said a deep voice. Bannagran's, perhaps, Bransen thought.

"Every now and then, they need to be reminded," came the reply, a voice that Bransen did not know, dour and serious and gravelly with age.

"Perhaps it is a reminder that I need, as well," said a third, whom Bransen recognized as Laird Prydae. It also struck the young man that the laird's voice was quite somber. "I do not miss the sound and smell of battle," Prydae went on. "Yet I cannot dismiss the thrill that courses my body when I drive my chariot and draw my sword."

"It gives hope to the people," said the voice Bransen believed to be that of Bannagran. "You are their protector."

"And their laird, with all the privileges that entails," said the old voice. "The woman you chose along the parade route awaits you in your chambers, my liege. Use her well."

"My blood is hot with the sound of trumpets and cheers," Prydae said. "Perhaps this, at long last, will be the night for consummation."

Bransen heard the tink of goblets tapped in toast, and a moment later, the sound of footsteps receding, followed by the bang of a heavy door closing. He waited a bit longer before edging toward the window and peering in.

The room was dark, with only the glowing embers of the fire remaining to add to the slanted rays of moonlight that were sliding in through the narrow window.

Bransen held his position and glanced all around and down. Still he saw no guards walking sentry. After a few more moments of silence, he slipped into the room.

He moved away from the window, crouching in the darkness and allowing his eyes to adjust. Gradually, the distinctive shapes within the room came into clearer focus: the closed door across the way, the chairs before the hearth off to his left, the hearth itself.

And something set on the wall above the hearth.

Bransen sucked in his breath. Had good fortune shone upon him? Had he wandered into the very room that contained his mother's sword?

Silent as a shadow, he slipped to the hearth and saw the outline on the wall. It was a sword, a long sword, too long for bronze or iron.

Behind him to the right, the door banged open, and he saw the steel of the fine blade flash with the sudden intrusion of torchlight.

Bransen swung around to see a surprised Bannagran standing just inside the door, torch in hand and wearing only a tunic and loose breeches. The man's eyes were so wide that they seemed as if they might roll out of their sockets, and his jaw drooped open. But that dumfounded expression fast twisted into a wicked grin.

"Was it the Ancient Ones of the Samhaists or Blessed Abelle that put you here in my grasp?" the large man asked as he quickly set the torch into a bracket beside the door. "For truly such good fortune as this falls within the realm of divine miracle!"

He balled his huge fists and rushed forward.

Bransen sprang over the chair behind him, putting more ground and now two chairs between himself and the charging warrior. He landed in a defensive crouch and easily ducked away as Bannagran lifted one of the chairs and threw it at him. Then he hopped aside as the second chair flew through the air, swept away by the wrath of the powerful Bannagran.

The mighty warrior waded in with a wide-arcing left hook that the nimble Highwayman easily ducked, then came with a straight cross. Bransen's hand knifed up to deflect the blow, but Bannagran would not be so easily deterred. He launched a straight left and followed with a right, then back and forth in a sudden and vicious flurry, barreling forward like an angry bull.