R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

But Bransen hardly heard them, keeping his focus on his helpless love and on the wretch who held her and who seemed so full of glee at the thought of tearing out her beautiful throat. A spasm nearly knocked Bransen from his feet then, as his emotions threatened to break the concentration that allowed him to hold himself in check. He tightened his grip on the soul stone and forced himself, for Cadayle's sake, to regain his complete control.

His line of chi burned brightly within him, excited by anger and terror, vibrating and humming. He could see it clearly as he closed his eyes and looked inside.

"Move aside," he heard Prydae demand, "away from the door."

He kept his eyes closed, kept his focus on that line of burning energy. He brought his hands down together in front of him, cupped his free hand, and clenched the soul stone all the tighter. His chi was a tangible thing to him at that moment, a real line and not an imagined one, like a wire that held him together, like a strong cord that kept him upright.

Like a spear.

With a deep exhalation, Bransen fell even further into himself.

"I'll not tell you again, boy!" Prydae screamed, but Bransen didn't hear him.

Behind him the door broke apart under another heavy blow, but Bransen didn't hear it.

Another deep exhalation, and the young man pictured a part of his life's energy blowing out from him, into his cupped hand. He collected it there, and felt its weight, felt its tingle.

"Move, boy!" Prydae screamed, distantly, it seemed to Bransen.

Cadayle's gasp sounded more keenly and more closely, but that, too, he pushed aside, as he breathed deeply yet again.

"Kill her!" he heard Prydae command.

Bransen's eyes opened, and he thrust his hands out toward Cadayle and Rennarq; and with that movement he threw his collected chi, a javelin of his life energy, a bolt of his inner strength.

Rennarq gave a gurgled cry as that tangible energy crashed into him, and his legs buckled, pulling Cadayle down behind him, hard to the floor.

Prydae leaped ahead with a shout, sword jabbing for Bransen's chest.

Bransen's left hand slapped the tip aside at the last moment and he turned to counter, but this was no novice he faced but a trained and seasoned warrior.

Prydae retracted the blade and thrust again, and though Bransen again managed to slap the side of the blade, the laird deftly twisted it, cutting a gash in Bransen's forearm.

Bransen heard a gurgled whimper and realized that Cadayle was hurt.

Prydae struck again, and this time he got the blade through enough to poke a hole in Bransen's side, forcing him to leap back-and he felt a jolt behind him that nearly had him flying forward to impale himself on Prydae's blade as the door got smashed again, this time with the axe driving down to crack the locking bar.

Prydae thrust the blade and Bransen fell back against the door and snapped his foot up to deflect the blade. Ahead he charged, thinking he might have an opening, but even as his foot first connected, Prydae was already moving out of reach, falling back and low in a defensive crouch.

"Well fought, boy, but you have no chance!" Prydae cried. To drive his point home, he tried to drive the sword home and might well have succeeded, had not the door burst open behind Bransen, startling them both.

Prydae fell back; behind Bransen, Bannagran roared.

Bransen turned, purely on instinct, leaning back, arms out wide, as he came around. He only half registered the flying, spinning axe, soaring in now for his chest as he came around. And still he leaned, bending his knees, head going back so far that he looked through eyes turned upside down and saw Prydae coming in at him.

A darkness flickered before his eyes, but Bransen did not consciously register it as the spinning axe.

He went down so low that his shoulder blades brushed the floor, and then every muscle in his body reacted to his demand, swinging him back upright, his legs straining to pull.

He immediately went to a defensive stance and started to turn sideways, expecting an assault from Bannagran in the front and Prydae behind. But Bannagran, his eyes and mouth opened wide in a silent scream, did not approach; and before Bransen even glanced back at Prydae, he understood why.

For there staggered the Laird of Pryd Holding, mortally wounded, Bannagran's axe buried deep in his chest.

Bransen dove to the side of the room, to Cadayle, whose throat was pouring blood. Beside her, Rennarq gurgled and twitched, and Bransen absently pushed him aside. For he posed no threat, the young Jhesta Tu knew. Bransen's spear of energy had ruptured Rennarq's chi, had shattered the line and sent it into uncontrollable spasms. The irony of it, that Rennarq was doomed to become the very storklike creature he so detested, made no impact on Bransen at that moment-not with Cadayle lying so still before him.

He could feel her life energy, her warmth, flowing out of her as he fell over her in a hug. He tried to compose himself, tried to bring the soul stone to bear and find some way to heal her.

But it was too personal, too horrible, and Bransen couldn't find his focus! And he knew that the soldiers were coming in and that Bannagran would fly into murderous rage. He pressed the soul stone to her wound and sent his thoughts, his heart and soul, into it.

But it was too little, he feared, and his trembling hands could not focus the power.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly swooned, nearly broke apart on the floor.

"Bransen," Brother Reandu said quietly in his ear, and he placed his hand over Bransen's hand that held the soul stone. "Together, my friend," Reandu assured him. "Calm. Calm is the key."

Reandu kept talking to him, whispering to him, reassuring him. Bransen felt Reandu's energy flowing into his hand and into the soul stone, and used that flow as his own guide.

Bransen felt his hand grow warm.

The blood slowed to a trickle, then stemmed altogether.

Cadayle seemed so pale and so still…

"Please," Bransen whispered, but Cadayle did not stir.

Reandu patted Bransen on the back as the young man fell over his beloved sobbing, and the weary monk rose to his feet and turned. Prydae was dead, he knew, and had known as soon as he had pushed his way into the room. Over by the body, Bannagran rose, his face twisted in a knot of rage and confusion. He started toward Reandu and Bransen, but the monk stopped him with an upraised hand.

"There has been far too much tragedy this day," Reandu said.

"One more will die," Bannagran promised.

"Because he was protecting the woman he loves?"

The simple question stole some of the bluster from Bannagran, and stopped his approach.

"Would Bannagran, loyal Bannagran, have done any less?" Reandu pressed.

"Laird Prydae is dead," the large man proclaimed. "Bernivvigar is dead. Rennarq lies torn on the floor, and your own Master Bathelais lies broken below. All because of this man, this Highwayman!"

"We gain nothing by continuing this," Reandu said.

Bannagran glowered at him, then glanced down at the sword on the floor. "Perhaps my satisfaction at killing him will be enough," he growled, and he started to bend for the sword.

He jerked back, as a rolling body rushed past, and when it went by, the sword was gone; and Bannagran glanced behind to see the Highwayman standing there, sword leveled and ready to plunge it through Bannagran's chest.

"You speak of satisfaction?" Bransen asked him. "Like my own satisfaction in killing those who maimed and murdered my father Garibond? Like my own satisfaction in watching Bannagran's own axe tear open the chest of Laird Prydae? Like my own satisfaction now, when I see mighty Bannagran fall dead on the floor? For, yes, I know that you were among those who murdered Garibond. Pray to whatever god you serve, Bannagran, and be quick!"