R. Salvatore - The Bear

"While you fled?" Yeslnik screamed back.

"I am your queen! You must protect me!"

She hit him, but now, for the first time in his life, Yeslnik was having no more. He balled his fist and slugged Olym hard in the face, then repeatedly slapped and punched her, and, when that did not suffice to satisfy his rage, he grabbed her by the hair and tugged hard, taking out not only a handful of strands but a hairpin as well.

He struck with it, stabbing it into Olym's chest. Again and again, Yeslnik pumped his arm, all of his fury playing out with every invasion of his wife's flesh.

She screamed, she begged, she threw herself against him.

But Yeslnik merely growled, glad that he had mortally wounded her.

He kept growling until he realized that he couldn't support her great bulk against him and that his heels were against the top step of a long staircase. Cormack and Milkeila had not marched that afternoon with Gwydre and Bannagran back to Delaval City. As soon as the battle had ended, Bannagran and Gwydre had swung about in pursuit of Yeslnik, to be done with this all. But they had left many behind to tend the wounded, to pile and burn the dead. So Cormack and Milkeila remained about Blenden Coe, with so many wounded to tend and so many questions still unanswered.

It wasn't until two days later, the same morning that Harcourt arrived in Delaval City, that the pair at last discovered some credible witnesses who led them to a burned and scarred copse of trees. The couple made their way among the many trunks and roots, and, of all the treasures that would be looted from the carnage of Blenden Coe in the aftermath of that battle, none shone more precious than the sword Milkeila found on the ground in the leaves beneath one tall maple.

The woman paused a long while, steadying herself, before she dared look up.

To the tree-borne grave of the Highwayman. "He's dead," the young and pretty woman said to Harcourt when he rushed back to the stairs to view the broken body of King Yeslnik. "They're both dead!"

"What do we do?" another attendant asked in despair, and, indeed, the gloom spread wide and far and fast.

"We open the gates," Harcourt said, and all eyes looked upon him. "And pray that our conquerors are beneficent."

The gates of Delaval City were opened that day, as the sun sank low in the western sky, as, in a field far away, Cormack and Milkeila knelt and cried and kissed the hero who had won the day in Blenden Coe.

Harcourt of Palmaristown met the royal procession at the gates as they marched. He presented King Yeslnik's sword to Laird Bannagran… nay, to King Bannagran.

Bannagran took it and looked to Queen Gwydre at his side. Then he glanced at Master Reandu and at Laird Ethelbert, following right behind, who nodded his agreement.

Bannagran accepted Yeslnik's sword but in turn gave Harcourt back the sword the general had surrendered in Blenden Coe.

And in that moment, the horns of Pryd began to blow, and the horns of Delaval City replied, and the horns of Vanguard resounded, and the horns of Ethelbert dos Entel joined in, and from the ships in the river came the horns of Palmaristown, and in that moment of confusion and fear, there came to Delaval City, hope. Unlike so many who had left Blenden Coe, traveling straight to Delaval City to attend the formal wedding and coronation of Bannagran and Gwydre, Cormack and Milkeila took a more roundabout route, moving north and west to the bank of the Masur Delaval not far south from Palmaristown.

It seemed a fool's chase, even to Cormack, who had insisted upon it, but he was determined to at least try. He owed his unlikely friends that much.

Whether it was some magic in the powrie beret he wore or a matter of good information gleaned from some of Milwellis's soldiers or simply dumb luck or some combination of the three, Cormack did not know, but walking along the river, the monk recognized the familiar face immediately, though it was bloated in death and well along in rot.

But he knew this dwarf, without doubt.

"And Bikelbrin's up here," Milkeila called a few moments later from the rise just off the river. "I cannot believe that we found them!"

Cormack stood hands on hips, looking down at the powrie who had befriended him. The weight of all the world fell on his shoulders in that one moment, and tears escaped his eyes. Tears for Mcwigik and Bikelbrin, tears for Bransen, tears for Jameston Sequin, tears for all the dead and all the maimed and all the grieving.

"Bury them?" Milkeila asked, for she was not sure why Cormack had insisted on this expedition.

The monk shook his head. He drew a knife from his belt and crouched down over his dead powrie friend.

"Cormack!" Milkeila yelled at him when he started cutting, but he did not stop, and by the time the woman arrived at his side, he stood up and showed her Mcwigik's heart. Methodically, the monk went to Bikelbrin and similarly cut out his heart.

"What are you doing?" Milkeila asked repeatedly as Cormack found a clear spot in from the river, a place suitable for his needs. He placed the hearts down gently and began to dig with his knife.

"Help me," he said.

"You bury their hearts?"

"And then we sing," Cormack said. Milkeila paused and stared at him suspiciously.

She went to her work, though, and they finished the hole and placed the hearts of Mcwigik and Bikelbrin within.

Cormack tapped down the replaced earth, then grabbed Milkeila by the shoulders and bent low in a huddle. He began the cadence of the song he had learned long ago in a place far away, and Milkeila dutifully chanted along, though she did not know the words.

It didn't matter, Cormack thought, for what did he know of this ritual anyway? Would two new dwarves, offspring of his friends, actually come forth?

"That is Sepulcher?" Milkeila asked when they were done.

Cormack nodded.

"Why?" the woman asked.

"I don't know," Cormack answered honestly. "A debt repaid?"

The couple stood holding hands above the graves, the womb of Mcwigik and Bikelbrin, for a long, long while.

And there they put the past behind them and turned south toward Delaval City, toward the future.

Bransen Garibond, Prince of Pryd, cast his line into the still waters of the lake and rested back against the stone. This was his favorite fishing spot in all of Pryd Town, a small outcrop that jutted into the water beside the old house, the childhood home of his father and namesake. From the window of that house, his house now, his father had often watched his adoptive father, Garibond Womak, similarly casting.

At least, so claimed his mother and grandmother, and Bransen could well imagine it. He felt connected to this place, which, along with Castle Pryd, had been his home for all his thirty-five years. Here he was at peace. Here the world was as it should be in the kingdom known as Honce-the-Bear in God's Year 111.

"Father!" he heard a call from his teenaged son, and Dynard came into view, sprinting past the house toward Bransen. On the porch, Callen McKeege stood up curiously, but old Dawson, well into his nineties now, hardly seemed to notice the disturbance.

"Word from Ursal!" Dynard exclaimed, referring to the throne of Honce-the-Bear, a city once known as Delaval.

Bransen knew what was coming before Dynard even spoke it.

"To the castle," he instructed his son, and Callen and even old Dawson followed.

They found Cadayle, the longtime Dame of Pryd, tending one of her many gardens. Her smile had not diminished with age, though the sparkle in her eyes had never quite returned after the loss of her beloved husband.

"The king is dead," Bransen told his mother.

Cadayle closed her eyes and took a deep and steadying breath. Like Bransen, she wasn't surprised by the news, for all in the kingdom who knew well the old Bear of Honce knew that he wouldn't long survive after the death of his wife, Queen Gwydre.