R. Salvatore - The Bear

That last flourish seemed lost on Laird Ethelbert, who stared only at Cormack with great intrigue.

"What are you wearing?" the old man said, and, indeed, he seemed ancient to the three newcomers, as old and tired as Father Artolivan himself.

"My laird?" Cormack asked.

"On your head," Ethelbert clarified. "Is that the beret of a red-cap dwarf?"

Cormack shuffled from foot to foot and cleared his throat. "It is, Laird Ethelbert," he explained. "Won in mortal combat."

"You killed a powrie and took his cap?"

Cormack thought back to that fateful day on a beach in far-off Alpinador, on the steamy, hot lake of Mithranidoon, when he had battled a nasty little dwarf named Pragganag. He hadn't actually killed the wretch, but he had won the fight. The other powries had then finished the job and had given him Prag's hat as a trophy as agreed upon before the duel.

"I defeated the dwarf and took his cap," said Cormack, trying to sound confident, "and by order of Father De Guilbe, who led my chapel, I am bound to wear it forevermore."

Ethelbert looked to Destros, but the young monk could only shrug, having never heard of such a thing before.

"Any man who can beat a powrie…" Ethelbert paused. "What weapon did you use?"

"No weapon," Cormack assured him.

The response brought a great guffaw of laughter from the old laird. "Any man who can beat a powrie-and with his bare hands no less-is a man I want by my side in battle!" the laird proclaimed, to many approving nods.

Ethelbert came forward in his chair suddenly, poking a finger Cormack's way. "But if you're lying," he warned, wagging that digit and wearing a scowl-but one that could not hold as he fell back and laughed again. "If you're lying, then I'd want you beside me anyway, to tell my tales as fancifully as you weave your own!"

Almost everyone in the room began to laugh, including the three newcomers, who looked to each other with great relief. Everyone, that is, but the silk-clad warriors, who were not even grinning.

"You've sailed a long way," Ethelbert said when the titter and chatter died away. "Do you mean to tell me why?"

"To tell you of the proclamation of St. Mere Abelle," Cormack said, "though it seems you have already heard the word."

"Even the church could not swallow the bile of the fool Yeslnik," said Ethelbert, his voice strained as he spat the cursed name.

"And we came because you've wound yourself into a tight spot," Dawson said bluntly. "And so have we, caught in the walls of St. Mere Abelle."

Ethelbert paused, his face growing very serious. All around him men tensed, a reaction similar to that out on the docks when Dawson had mentioned the state of the war.

"The Dame of Vanguard will not see Yeslnik win," Dawson quickly added.

"Dame Gwydre will support my cause?"

Dawson paused, frowning. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Laird Ethelbert." Dawson looked all around. "Perhaps in a setting more private," he continued in a lower voice. To the surprise of many in the room, and to the absolute shock of Father Destros, Laird Ethelbert nodded his agreement and told his attendants to arrange it immediately.

Dawson and Cormack exchanged quick, knowing looks: Laird Ethelbert's predicament was obviously as dire as they had heard.

In short order, the three visitors to the city sat in a small room before Ethelbert, who was flanked by an older veteran warrior and Father Destros on one side and by the dark-skinned woman from Behr on the other. Unlike all the others in the room, she did not sit down, and her hand did not stray far from the hilt of the fabulous sword hanging on her left hip, a sword that looked exactly like the one Bransen carried.

"Choose your words carefully," Laird Ethelbert warned to begin the negotiation.

"We didn't sail halfway around the world, dodging Palmaristown warships and powrie barrelboats all the way, to dance pretty," Dawson replied.

"What does Dame Gwydre offer?"

"Not just Dame Gwydre, but St. Mere Abelle, as well," Cormack interjected.

Ethelbert shifted painfully in his seat, seeming even older than before.

"The war does not go well for you," said Dawson. "You've put a grand fight against Yeslnik and his uncle before him, by all accounts, but there's too many in Delaval and Palmaristown, and all along the river. Yeslnik can put fifty thousand in the field, and you've just a tenth o' that."

"We have heard proclamations of our defeat before," answered the veteran at Ethelbert's side. "Usually right before we chased Yeslnik from the field!"

"A grand fight," Dawson said again. "And no disrespect intended-far from it. Would that Laird Ethelbert had won the war outright, but 'twas not to be and is not to be."

"Then what?" asked Ethelbert. "I thought Dawson claimed that he did not dance prettily."

"True enough," replied the old sea dog from rugged Vanguard. "You cannot win, and you know you cannot win."

"I will kill him for you, great Ethelbert," the woman in silk promised in a thick Behr accent, leaning forward.

Ethelbert held up his hand to silence her. "What do you know?"

"Only what you know," Dawson replied. "And not to doubt that our own situation isn't much more promising, except that we're caught behind the tall and thick walls of the great chapel, with a horde of monks and magical gemstones to keep our enemies out. And not to doubt that we're not to win over Yeslnik's thousands, either."

"Not alone," Cormack explained.

"You've come for an alliance," said Ethelbert. "Ethelbert dos Entel and Vanguard, combined against Yeslnik."

"And the Order of Blessed Abelle," Cormack added. "Those who remain loyal to Father Artolivan, at least, for rumor spreads that Yeslnik has created a shadow church to subvert Father Artolivan's power."

Father Destros's face tightened at that, but he nodded to show that he was not surprised and, it appeared, to offer a bit of support for Artolivan.

"Then as I said out in the main chamber you have come to offer your support for my cause," said Ethelbert.

"Partly that," Dawson replied. "An alliance, but not fealty."

"Explain."

"Dame Gwydre is your peer, not your subject, and the church of Father Artolivan is something altogether different than those choices," said Dawson. "We need to work together to rid the land of Yeslnik, but not to place King Ethelbert in his stead."

That had all of those seated opposite Dawson bristling with outrage. Except for Ethelbert, who leaned back and rubbed a hand wearily over his old, wrinkled face. After some consideration, he shook his head.

"Vanguard separate, perhaps," he said. "But not the other holdings. It cannot be. After years of war and with the roads locked under the boots of armies, Honce cannot be as she was. The lairds must stand united."

"Aye, and not Vanguard separate," said Dawson.

"Then what?" Ethelbert demanded. "What does Dame Gwydre want?"

"Queen Gwydre," Dawson dared to correct, widening the eyes of the four across the room. "Ethelbert remains independent and supreme in his holding," Dawson quickly added. "Your city is your own, good laird, in gratitude from all of Honce for the battle you dared wage."

"Silence!" Laird Ethelbert shouted. "You come to my throne demanding fealty of me?"

"We come demanding nothing but offering our help in your struggle with Yeslnik."

"Mutual benefit?"

Dawson nodded. "Best kind."

"But to the end result of a Queen Gwydre?" Ethelbert asked incredulously. "Why would I agree to any such thing?"

"Because your only other choice is to be pushed into the sea," Cormack said, surprising everyone. "Or to remain trapped here surrounded by enemies. With a Queen Gwydre enthroned, Laird Ethelbert would be a man of the highest standing across the realm, independent within his own holding and in his dealings with others, like the sheiks of Behr. Such will not be the case with a King Yeslnik."