R. Salvatore - The Bear

"But wouldn't that be the case with King Ethelbert?" the laird asked.

"We cannot prevail were those the terms," said Cormack. "Our only hope lies in turning some of Yeslnik's minions to our cause. The Order of Blessed Abelle helps with that, but the name of Ethelbert is not held in high esteem in the lands of central and western Honce. You have dug deep trenches with your war, and not a family in Honce has been spared the grief. Such is not true of Dame Gwydre, who will be viewed as an alternative to the misery the common folk have known these last months and years. They will view her with hope, a savior from their pain, and will perhaps turn against their King Yeslnik and fight for her."

The old warrior to Ethelbert's side began to protest, but the laird cut him short with a snarling and derisive, "The common folk."

"All the men of Vanguard and all the men at your command combined would falter at the feet of Yeslnik's great army," said Dawson.

"And so you are in as desperate a situation as I," Ethelbert protested.

"Nay, for we can just sail home and be done with it," Dawson replied.

"The walls of St. Mere Abelle are impenetrable," Cormack added. "Forever and more can the brothers remain within. We are all quite above this war of yours if we so choose."

Ethelbert's narrowed eyes were his only response.

"Or it would have been, and still would be, a small matter for Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to broker a truce with Yeslnik in exchange for the autonomy of Vanguard, a land for which he cares little, and to which he cannot easily march or sail," Cormack added, though didn't quite believe. "But we choose this path."

"Because Dame Gwydre is no different than Delaval and Yeslnik," Ethelbert said with a snicker.

"So different you'd never think her a laird… err, dame," Dawson answered.

"Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan choose this path out of generosity and duty," said Cormack. "They cannot abide the agony the common folk of Honce suffer because of the designs of an ambitious laird."

Ethelbert stiffened at that, and Cormack added, "We know that Delaval began this war, and that you tried to do as we now hope. And we have no love of Yeslnik or his second from Palmaristown, a brutal and wretched man. We would see Yeslnik defeated. This is the only way, and even this plan seems desperate."

"But you would do it for Queen Gwydre?" asked Ethelbert.

"We do it because it's right," Dawson answered. "Same reason we just fought the Samhaists in Vanguard."

"But you called it desperate and claim that you can sail away from it."

"A sorry bunch of heroes that'd make us," said Dawson.

"Heroes, yes," the laird replied with more than a little sarcasm.

"We have come as friends and allies, Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said, "openly and under a flag of truce. Our offer is one of cooperation and friendship and is yours to accept or reject."

"And if I reject?"

"We sail away to St. Mere Abelle."

"To Yeslnik's side?"

"Never," Cormack and Dawson said together.

Ethelbert managed a nod of acceptance at that. He waved them away, then. "Go to your boat or remain in the castle if you choose-my attendants will see to your room and needs. We will meet again when I have discussed this with my generals here."

The three rose, bowed, and turned to leave, but Cormack hesitated and fixed his gaze on the Behr warrior woman. "That sword," he said. "It is most marvelous."

The woman eyed him dangerously, unblinking.

"Affwin Wi is from the land of Behr, where such swords are crafted," Ethelbert answered.

"It is Jhesta Tu, is it not?"

"Speaking a name does not reveal understanding," the dark woman replied in her thick Behr accent, biting the syllables short and almost stabbing with the hard consonant sounds. "And does not impress. Speaking of what you do not know is the mark of a fool."

Cormack sorted out a reply, wanting to explore the origin of this particular sword a bit further. Instead he changed his mind and just smiled, bowed, and caught up with his companions, who had decided to go back to the security of Lady Dreamer. Impertinent fools," said Kirren Howen, the general who had sat by Laird Ethelbert's side for the private meeting. Past middle age but not nearly Ethelbert's contemporary, the thick-haired, graying warrior took care with his tone to make his claim one of support and not absolute judgment.

Laird Ethelbert turned from the counter where he was pouring fine liquor for the two into delicate glasses he had recently received from Behr.

"Look at these," he said, holding them up for his friend. "You can see the tan liquid through their shining sides. So much more delicate and beautiful than a bronze mug, no matter how many wolves or dancing ladies you carve into one."

Kirren Howen cocked his head curiously. "Yes, laird." He took the glass as Ethelbert moved over and extended it to him.

"Yet another fine example of the idiocy of parochialism, do you agree?"

The general seemed not to understand.

"Beasts of Behr!" Ethelbert exclaimed with a laugh, explaining it all so bluntly and so simply, as was his wont. Certainly Kirren Howen caught on to the meaning immediately. For most of Honce, the desert kingdom south of the impassable mountains was a place of barbarians and beasts masquerading as men. But Laird Ethelbert and those of his court knew better.

"Have you ever seen Affwin Wi dance?"

"My laird?"

"You have witnessed her in battle, no doubt."

"Of course."

"As fine a warrior as ever carried a blade-though she would not even need a blade to kill most opponents."

"I cannot deny the truth of that."

"She is equally exquisite when she dances. A promise of love, delicate and beautiful, or dangerous, even deadly. She can twirl about on the ball of one foot slowly enough to kill a man with lust or break into a spin so fast that if she kicked out of it she could surely crush a man's heart with her foot. She is Behr, you see. So raw and pure, colorful and dark, delicate and deadly."

The door burst in then and two men, brawny warriors both, stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over each other.

"My laird," they said together.

"I can take their miserable ship right out of the water, Laird Ethelbert," promised one, Myrick the Bold, the ferocious and impetuous commander of Entel, the city's dock section.

"And I will deliver their heads to the gates of Chapel Abelle," said the other, an enormously strong man named Tyne.

"I thank the old ones and Blessed Abelle and the Sun God of Behr-whichever might be listening!-for you every day, Kirren," Ethelbert said to his older and calmer general. He tapped his glass against Kirren Howen's.

Another man, small of frame and hardly hinting at any warrior stature, rushed into the room. "Your pardon, my laird," said Palfry, Ethelbert's favorite attendant, like a son to the old laird. "I tried to slow them…"

"I told you to summon these two, Palfry, not to excite them," Ethelbert said with a slight chuckle. "You know how hot run the humors of Myrick and Tyne!"

"Yes, laird," Palfry said, lowering his eyes.

"What do you think, Kirren?" Ethelbert asked. "Should we let Myrick sink this boat from Vanguard and just kill the emissaries, or cut off their heads as Tyne suggests?"

Kirren Howen's eyes went wide with surprise. Quite the diplomat, are you not?" Cormack scolded Dawson again when they and Milkeila were alone in the captain's private room on Lady Dreamer.

Dawson snorted. "Speaks the man who told Ethelbert he couldn't win the war."

"What choice was I given after Dawson proclaimed Gwydre the Queen of Honce?"

"I didn't sail halfway around the world to parse my words, monk," said Dawson.

"His temperament might have been more calm if we'd brought Callen Duwornay," Milkeila suggested softly, not looking at them.