R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

"On your head-if any harm comes to this woman, I will see you dead. All of you!" he shouted in rage, spinning to encompass the crowd. "Any who harm this woman will feel the wrath of the Highwayman! That wrath is boundless, I assure you!" He turned back to the two frightened soldiers, locking their gazes with his own. "I know your faces now. I know."

He turned to Callen. "Where is Cadayle?"

"Laird Prydae took her," she replied, her voice and body trembling. "He took her!"

"To the castle!" someone in the crowd called out.

"I seen him drag her in," said another.

Bransen looked all around, amazed once more at the reaction to the Highwayman. He pulled Callen close and hugged her tightly. "On my life, she will not be harmed," he whispered, then he turned and ran off, heading straight for Castle Pryd.

But then he veered as he saw the other structure beside the great castle.

The place he had called home for a decade.

The place, he now knew, that had never been his home.

Their Pet Idiot He sprinted through the streets of Pryd Town, chased only by the calls of those who spotted the man in the distinctive black outfit. He charged into the courtyard of Chapel Pryd, hardly slowing and brushing aside the one young, startled monk who made a move as if to try to stop him.

The main doors were open, but the Highwayman, knowing this building intimately, moved to the right-hand wall and to the small door set at its far end. This one, too, was unlocked, and Bransen charged through. He crossed the room above his own dungeon, to the door to the main corridor, and paused there, hearing voices in the hallway beyond and calls echoing.

With a growl, a memory of Callen at Bernivvigar's stone, and a mental image of the pains that Cadayle might then be suffering, Bransen kicked the door open and leaped out into the hall.

A pair of brothers confronted him at once, one holding high his shaking fist-clenching gemstones, Bransen understood-and the other waving an iron short sword, so ill cared for and infrequently used that it showed rust all along its black blade.

"You would be wise to escort me to Master Bathelais," he warned, his voice even, calm, and controlled. "And if you try to use that gemstone, I assure you that your head will bounce to the floor beside it."

The man thrust his fist forward a bit, in an attempt to be menacing, Bransen presumed.

Bransen's left hand snapped forward, clutching the man's wrist and yanking him forward. His right hand cupped over the gem-holding fist, turning it down and bending the wrist. The man shrieked in pain, all strength fleeing from his hand, and Bransen shoved him back-and now it was Bransen's fist that held the gemstone.

Even as he pushed the monk away, the other, inspired by the sudden action, perhaps, leaped forward and plunged his sword at the intruder's chest. A slight turn by Bransen had the blade going harmlessly by, and Bransen locked the man's sword arm tight against his side and sent his free hand, his fist balled, crunching into the monk's nose. He pumped his arm three times, connecting solidly with every punch, then brought his knee up hard into the poor man's groin. As the man lurched over, Bransen let go of his trapped sword arm and hit him with a right cross that spun him to the side and slammed him hard against the corridor wall, where he folded down in a heap.

The other young monk stood there transfixed and obviously terrified. That fear only heightened when the Highwayman snapped his magnificent sword out, putting its gleaming tip close to the trembling monk's bare throat.

"To Bathelais, at once, or I leave you dead on the floor," the Highwayman promised, and to his surprise, Bransen realized that he meant every word.

The terrified young monk scurried away, Bransen close behind. Bransen paused just long enough to turn and throw the gemstone at the head of the groaning, prostrate monk.

"What is the meaning of this?" Master Bathelais shouted, leaping from his chair when the door of his audience room burst open and a younger brother came stumbling in, to fall hard on the floor. Bathelais's eyes narrowed, but he did not back down as a second figure entered, one dressed in black clothes that proclaimed his identity.

Bathelais was not alone; Reandu, sitting across the hearth from him, also rose, sucking in his breath with the movement. Closer to the hearth, Father Jerak sat slumped in a chair, appearing oblivious to it all. One other brother was there, an attendant to the infirm Jerak. He had been standing just inside the door and to the side, though now he faded farther from the door, inching out toward his master and Brother Reandu.

"You dare to enter this holy place?" Bathelais said, and he squared his jaw and straightened his shoulders.

"It is no place that I have not been many times before," the Highwayman responded.

Bathelais stared at him hard, searching for a clue, but he needn't have bothered, for in that moment, Bransen reached up with his free hand and pulled the mask, and the gemstone, from his head.

"Do you not recognize your pet idiot, Master Bathelais?" Bransen asked.

Bathelais's composure couldn't hold any longer, and he widened his eyes, staggered back half a step, and nearly toppled over his chair. Across from him, Brother Reandu gasped and fell back into his chair, and the other monk cried out, "Stork!"

"It is imposs-it is impossible," Bathelais stammered, and the irony of listening to him stuttering was not lost on Bransen. "How? How can this be?"

Bransen came forward suddenly, sword tip lunging close to Bathelais's throat. "I have not time for explanations."

"We took you in!" Bathelais roared back. "We showed you mercy when-"

"Shut up," Bransen said, and he prodded the deadly sword ahead. "Mercy?" He spat the word, and then spat upon the floor at Bathelais's feet.

"You dare-" Bathelais started to protest, but he learned then that a sword tip against his throat was a sure way to silence him.

"Mercy?" Bransen echoed again. "You allow me to clean your chamber pots, and I am to fall to my knees in gratitude?" As Bathelais started to respond, Bransen poked his throat again with the sword, and then snapped the blade across, in line with Reandu, when he began to answer.

"None of it matters," Bransen explained. "I need you now, and you will help me."

"You are a fool," Bathelais managed, before Bransen prodded him again.

"An idiot, perhaps, if I was to believe the opinion of Master Bathelais," Bransen replied. "But it matters not. None of it. You are going to help me now, to repay me for the murder of Garibond Womak."

Bathelais's eyes widened so much that Bransen wondered if they would just roll out of their sockets.

"Yes, I know all about it," he said. "I know what you did soon after taking me in as your slave."

"He was in possession-" Brother Reandu started.

"Shut up," came the interruption. "I know everything there is to say on that matter, and the only reason that your heads are not rolling on the floor now is because I need you. Fail me in any way, and you die and all of your brethren in this chapel die also. Every one."

He studied Father Jerak as he finished-the man who had been in charge of the chapel on the day when Garibond had been murdered. Bransen thought to go over and cut the man's throat to show these others how serious he was, and he did take a step in that direction. But just one step, then the Highwayman stopped and pushed the thought out of his mind. To what gain?

Having passed that test, Bransen turned back to Bathelais and noted that the man shifted his glance, just briefly, to glance over Bransen's shoulder.

Alerted, the Highwayman dipped suddenly and lashed out with his foot, catching the creeping monk in the stomach and doubling him over. As soon as his foot came back to the floor, Bransen spun, his other foot connecting squarely with the side of the lurching monk's face, sending him flying away, crashing over a table and into a wall, where he lay very still.