R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

Bransen lowered the sword. "Was?"

"Aye, Garibond once lived in the very house where come that knife."

"Where is he now?"

"Garbond Womak?" The man shrugged. "He's dead, from all I heard, and so he must be. Many went to the house and took what was there."

Bransen's eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"Aye, that's the way of it," another of the group insisted. "So many have so little. When one's dying, we're not to let his belongings go to waste."

"Garibond is not dead!" Bransen insisted.

"Then he's been gone a lot of years, and so it's the same," the man with the knife argued back.

Bransen shook his head. None of it made any sense to him. Garibond couldn't be dead. What had Brother Reandu said? That he had moved south…But Bransen remembered, too, that Brother Reandu would not meet his eyes. And Bransen thought of his last visit to the houses on the lake, of the strangers he had seen there, fishing and going about their business as if that was their home.

A fit of trembling began at the base of Bransen's spine and worked its way steadily up. Garibond dead? The thought hammered at him, for never had he even considered such a thing. Garibond was the foundation of all his life; and for ten years, Bransen had held fast the fantasy of going back to him, of showing him that his son was all right, after all.

"What more do you know?" he demanded of the group.

"I know that ye're holding me knife."

"Garibond's knife," Bransen corrected with a growl that told them the issue was not up for debate. But he noted the expressions coming at him from all the men, and most of those looks registered disappointment. They had invited him in to dine with them, though they rarely had enough to eat, he knew. They had offered to join with him.

They thought him a hero of the common folk.

Bransen tossed the knife down before the man. "Garibond is not dead," he said. "And when I find him, I ask that you return his knife."

"Bah, it's me own now," the man said defiantly, and he scooped up the blade. "Had it for ten years!"

The words nearly floored Bransen, and he staggered back as if struck, then turned on his heel and rushed out of the trees and across the field, running fast for Chapel Pryd, running away from the horrible thoughts that were dancing in his mind.

But they followed him, every step.

A Woman and Her Jewels Bannagran walked through the streets of Pryd Town muttering to himself, remembering his last conversation with Laird Prydae. He had not often seen his friend so animated and agitated. The continuing war threat to Pryd Holding had the laird on the edge, and this Highwayman character was threatening to push him right over. Every day at breakfast, Prydae spoke of nothing else, feverishly working with Bannagran and Rennarq to try to find some clues as to how they might apprehend the rogue. Every day, they related the same stories over and over again. Prydae had even bade Rennarq to ask Bernivvigar for help, something the secular ruler had always been loath to do.

Bannagran tried a rational approach now, focusing on the patterns of the attacks, from the first sighting of the Highwayman to the last. His thoughts and instincts kept going back to the first incident, the only one in which anyone had been seriously hurt, other than one of Yeslnik's drivers in the powrie attack. As chance would have it, with those very thoughts in mind, he spotted Rulhio Noylan-who had been among the five that the Highwayman had defeated-walking along the road by the market square.

The large warrior moved to intercept, and Rulhio saw him coming and abruptly turned.

"I would speak with you, young Noylan," Bannagran said, moving fast to catch up.

Rulhio's expression showed great fear when he glanced back at Bannagran, but no more so than Bannagran was used to seeing on the faces of young men, for usually when he spoke to them, it meant a trip to the south and the battle lines! Still, the young man did skid to an abrupt stop and stood waiting for the imposing warrior.

"You were there that night when Tarkus Breen was murdered?" Bannagran asked.

Rulhio swallowed hard and managed a slight nod.

"I wish to hear the tale."

"I told it in full," Rulhio replied shakily. "We all did."

Bannagran sensed suddenly that the man was a bit too defensive, and his instincts told him that there might be more to this than had previously been explained. Knowing aggression to be the arbiter of truth, the imposing warrior grabbed poor Rulhio by the front of his tunic. "And you will tell me again," he too-calmly explained, and he half carried, half dragged the terrified man off the main road, down a side alley where fewer witnesses could be found.

So the cringing Rulhio recounted the tale of that fateful night, a story that seemed strained now to Bannagran and not completely in line with what he had heard those weeks before. Bannagran purposely doubted every word, and searched for weaknesses in the logical chain of events.

"You and your friends were drunk?"

"Aye, he could not have defeated us if we were not," the terrified young man replied.

"And this happened out on the west road, out by Gorham's Hill?"

"Aye, as we told you. Way out there."

"Where did you come by the drink?"

"Inkerby's," Rulhio replied, naming a well-known tavern in Pryd Town, under the shadow of the castle and often frequented by soldiers.

Bannagran tried to hide his smile as he caught on. Why would five drunken men-troublemakers all, he knew-wander from Inkerby's, which was frequented by many of the local whores, all the way out to the western edge of Pryd Town. To his knowledge, none of the five in question lived out that way.

"Gorham's Hill is a long walk from town," he remarked, and he saw the sudden flash of panic in Rulhio's eyes.

"Well, we were drinking and needed to walk it off a bit. Me ma's not in favor of me-"

"You are often drunk," Bannagran interrupted. "And your mother knows as much."

"Just walking, is all."

"To Gorham's Hill? From Inkerby's?"

"Aye."

Bannagran went with his instincts. He came forward suddenly and brutally, grabbing poor, frightened Rulhio and lifting him off the ground. Two strides put them across the alley, where Bannagran slammed Rulhio up against the wall and held him in place, his feet a foot and more off the ground.

"W-what are…?" Rulhio stuttered. "Why are-?"

"You tell me why you were out by Gorham's Hill."

"I just-" Rulhio started to reply. Bannagran brought him out and slammed him against the wall again, and Rulhio cried out.

"Hey there!" someone shouted in protest from the entrance of the alleyway, but when the newcomer saw who was down there-the legendary Bannagran-he ran off.

"My polite questioning fast approaches its end," Bannagran warned, and he pulled poor Rulhio out from the wall again, as if to slam him.

"Was the wench Cadayle!" Rulhio cried, and Bannagran froze, holding him aloft with ease.

"Cadayle?"

"She lives out there. Nothing but trouble for all of us. Teasing all the town men with her charms and protecting that ugly Stork beast who hides in the chapel."

Bannagran put him down, and Rulhio slumped back against the wall, which seemed the only thing holding him up at the moment.

"What are you blabbering about, man?" Bannagran demanded.

"We just wanted to teach her some respect."

"Who? Cadayle?"

"Aye, the wench."

"I know not of her."

"She's living out by Gorham's Hill with her ma," Rulhio explained. "Was Tarkus Breen's idea to pay them a visit. She fought him, here in town, defending that ugly little Stork."

"And so you went out there to teach her a lesson."

"Someone had to!"

Bannagran didn't argue the point with the fool. "And did you? Teach her, I mean?"