R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

Bransen ran to the top of the stairs and then a few steps along the next balcony before again leaping to the top of the railing and springing across, leaving his pursuit behind. Below him, as Brother Reandu tended the wounded sentry, Master Bathelais watched that second flight with as much amusement as awe. He lifted his fist, holding the graphite gemstone, and followed the Highwayman's course.

"And now you die," the monk growled, thrusting his arm forward-or starting to, until something slammed against him hard, driving his arm across his chest.

With a great heave, Bathelais shoved back and extracted himself from the grasp of Brother Reandu. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Master, do not!" Reandu said. "He is just a boy."

"You idiot!" Bathelais growled, and he lifted his arm again.

And again, Reandu crashed against him, defeating his aim.

"Brother!" Bathelais roared, and he swung back and shoved Reandu away. But Reandu came right back at him, wrestling him away from the ledge and toward the wall.

Bathelais turned as he fell back, yanking Reandu around him and slamming his attacker into that wall first, then crashed hard against him. Bathelais jumped back, pulling Reandu from the wall, then slammed Reandu into the wall once more.

"I warn you," Bathelais cried.

"This is not the way!" Reandu argued, his words popping out in an explosion of breath as Bathelais rammed him hard into the wall. Dazed, he hardly noticed as Bathelais let him go and whirled, rushing back to the railing.

All the world was spinning for Brother Reandu, all his buried notions about right and wrong. Images of Stork flashed through his mind, of the boy's pleading with him to teach him to read, of the filth and disrespect the boy had long suffered at the hands of the "generous" brothers of Abelle.

He saw Bathelais lifting his arm to loose another lightning bolt, lifting the edges of his mouth in a smile that struck Reandu as very wicked.

He pushed himself out from the wall, shouting at Bathelais to stop. And indeed, the master did hesitate and half turned to regard Reandu's charge. Master Bathelais tried to get out of the way or to brace himself, but wasn't successful.

Reandu plowed into him, both of them going hard against the balcony rail, which buckled under their weight.

Bathelais tumbled over the edge and Reandu stood, waving his arms in a effort to keep from falling. He did manage to do that, then looked down in horror at his superior lying on his back on the lower floor, groaning and barely moving. Out of the corner of his eye, as he leaped to the next balcony, Bransen saw the fall of Bathelais. It hardly registered because it hardly mattered to him. He saw a figure on the last balcony above, rushing through a doorway and heard from within a woman's cry.

The Highwayman leaped out and high, lifting his chi, lifting himself toward the heavens. He caught his balance on the railing of the top balcony just as the dark figure disappeared into the room and the door started to close. Two strides and a dive had him there in time, shouldering the door open before the locking bar could be secured, and Bransen tumbled into the room. He came up fast, kicking the door shut, the locking bar falling in place.

Bransen jumped up, his back to the door, his sword at the ready.

There stood Laird Prydae before him, stripped to the waist and easing behind the side of a great canopy bed. Bransen could have had him dead in one leap, he knew, but he had to hold, for on the other side of that bed stood Cadayle, wearing only a sheer nightdress, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears, and her head back awkwardly, twisting to avoid the knife that was firmly held at her throat.

Behind her, eyes gleaming with open hatred and a wildness that Bransen had never before witnessed, stood Rennarq.

"Could it be?" Rennarq rasped.

"Let her go," Bransen demanded.

"The Highwayman is this creature?" Laird Prydae asked, his voice full of mocking disbelief. "All my holding has held its breath in fear of this damaged, half-goblin…thing?"

Bransen kept his eyes locked on Cadayle, ignoring the insults, trying to find some way out. He thought of throwing his sword, but Rennarq had Cadayle locked tight as a shield, with only part of his face showing around her tresses.

"A dangerous little boy, now aren't you?" said Prydae, and he reached subtly toward his mattress, under which he always kept a dagger.

Bransen noted the move and pointed his sword at Prydae threateningly, but held his advance.

"He loves this one, my liege," Rennarq noted, and Bransen glanced the old man's way to see a wicked smile splayed across his wrinkled face. "Yet another victim claimed by the weakness of the heart."

Bransen steeled his expression at that.

"Is that not so?" Rennarq teased him. "Will you charge at me, brave Highwayman, and cut me to death? Will you slay the Laird of Pryd Holding? No doubt that is your desire, but is it above the price that such an action must cost?" As he finished, he slapped his free hand across Cadayle's forehead and pulled her head back, revealing more of her vulnerable neck and the dagger firmly pressed against her tender skin.

Bransen found it hard to draw breath.

He jumped, they all did, when something or someone slammed hard against the door behind him. The locking bar held, and the door did not burst open.

"My liege!" they heard Bannagran cry outside, and he began to bang hard on the heavy wooden door.

"I'll have your sword, Highwayman," Laird Prydae said, and he extended his hand.

Bransen didn't move, didn't breathe. He stared at his helpless love, who shook her head, or started to, before Rennarq tugged her head back viciously and pressed in the dagger.

"Be reasonable, boy," Laird Prydae went on. "Surrender your sword to me and I will let the woman live. Else she dies, and you will live with that image for the rest of your days, short though they will surely be."

Bransen looked at him, at his extended hand, though he was too far away for Bransen to hand him the blade.

"Come along now," Prydae prodded, motioning with his fingers. "Put it on the floor and slide it across to me."

"Let her go or you die!" Bransen growled.

"Do you think we are afraid of death, foolish boy?" Rennarq answered, stealing Bransen's bluster before the young man could even begin to gauge Laird Prydae's reaction to the threat. For when Bransen glanced back at Rennarq, he saw a wildness there that laughed at his threat and a determination that Cadayle's throat would soon be open wide. There was no hope for negotiation to be found in those dark and angry eyes, Bransen knew, whatever Prydae might say.

The pounding intensified against the door behind him. The buzzing in Bransen's head began anew.

"Your sword!" Prydae demanded sharply.

Bransen had no answers. Cadayle was doomed if he lunged for either the laird or Rennarq. He couldn't get to the old man quickly enough, and he knew without doubt that Rennarq would put his knife to deadly use without hesitation.

"Boy, on my word, the woman will live," Prydae shouted at him, above the crack of wood that now sounded behind Bransen, as if someone had taken an axe to the door. "Surrender your sword now, before my patience comes to its end!"

Bransen's breath came in gasps. He searched his thoughts and his recollections of the gemstones, but found no answers.

Because there were no answers.

He forced himself to stand straight, then bent and placed the sword on the ground and kicked it across to Laird Prydae.

Cadayle whimpered at the sight, and that, too, was cut short by another tug and press by Rennarq.

Bransen stared at the pair, hardly paying attention to Prydae who scooped up the fabulous sword and readied it.

"Now move away from the door," Prydae demanded, and another sharp rap and the crack of wood accentuated his words.