R. Salvatore - The Bear

Both men gaped at her, then laughed aloud, the tension broken. The budding love between Dawson McKeege, Dame Gwydre's most trusted advisor, and Callen, the mother-in-law of the rogue known as the Highwayman, was, after all, the worst-kept secret on the Mirianic.

"It was a dangerous play," Cormack said after a bit, as Dawson broke out a jug of his rum and three wooden mugs.

"The world's burning, front to back," Dawson replied, handing Milkeila her mug first. It pleased him for some reason each time he remembered that this woman from Alpinador could drink the both of them under the table.

"A play no less dangerous than Cormack's follow," Milkeila said in her somewhat shaky command of the Honce tongue. She brought the mug up, dipped a finger into it, and closed her eyes.

"Now why do you do that?" Dawson asked. "A bit of barbarian magic to take the bite away?"

Milkeila merely smiled as she always did when Dawson asked that predictable question. She took a great swallow of the rum, nearly draining the considerable mug.

"She cheats," Dawson said to Cormack.

"At everything," Milkeila's husband agreed. "That's why I keep her by my side."

"Oh, I'm knowin' why you keep her by your side, monk. Too many days in a chapel full of men."

Both men looked at Milkeila as Dawson finished the crude remark, but both knew better than to expect a blush from this warrior, strong with the spear and her shamanistic magic and secure and comfortable in her skin.

"What I'm wondering is why she's keeping you," Dawson finished, raising his mug in toast to Milkeila, who smiled and returned the lift.

"For once we agree," said Cormack.

"Your words with Laird Ethelbert were correct," Milkeila said. "We should state our case openly with that one. He will see any deception, and he knows more about us than we believe."

"Now where do you get that?" asked Dawson.

Milkeila just stared at him hard, gradually directing his gaze to Cormack.

"The woman from Behr," Cormack explained. "Her sword."

"Looked a lot like Bransen's sword," said Dawson.

"Such swords are common in Behr, perhaps," Cormack offered.

"When we see her again, seek a vantage to peer beneath the left fold of her blouse," Milkeila advised.

"Why would I be doing that, aside from her obvious charms?" asked Dawson.

"I'm not sure," Milkeila replied. "Just a hint, perhaps, and a guess. Laird Ethelbert is no fool. He has survived the overwhelming force of Laird Delaval and several times seemed almost on the edge of victory."

"True enough," Cormack said. "He is cornered and in a desperate place, but let us not underestimate him."

"Or those around him," Milkeila added. "We have witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman, and if Laird Ethelbert's bodyguards are of equal skill they will be formidable."

"If they're half as good as that one they could sink my ship by themselves," Dawson agreed and drained his wooden mug. I would, laird," Myrick the Bold said. "At your word, my archers will sweep the deck…"

He stopped under the mocking laughter of Laird Ethelbert.

"My laird?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, we should kill every one of them!" Ethelbert said with sarcastic exuberance, which melted into a self-deprecating, lonely chuckle. "They committed the greatest crime of all."

The three generals looked to each other with mounting confusion, and Kirren Howen finally asked, "Laird?"

"They told the truth," Ethelbert explained. He wasn't looking at them as he spoke, rather staring off into the empty corner of the room. "The greatest crime of all, to tell a laird the truth."

Another sad laugh ensued. When Ethelbert lifted his glass to his lips, his hand trembled severely. "Especially an old laird," he finished, looking back at the three.

"What would you have me do, laird?" an exasperated Myrick asked.

"Think," came the simple response.

Myrick and Tyne exchanged confused looks, but when they turned to Kirren Howen they saw that he understood. His expression revealed his sadness.

"So this is how we lose," Ethelbert said. "A much softer fall than we had expected, yes, Kirren?"

"Perhaps no fall at all," the general replied. "Do you trust their promises of autonomy?"

Ethelbert paused, then chuckled again, then shrugged. "Have I a choice? Truly?"

"Yes, laird!" said Tyne. "Send them away! Or send their heads away!"

"Our enemy gathers in the west," Ethelbert replied. "Our allies north along the coast have been ravaged. We'll find no reinforcements from Felidan Bay or the Mantis Arm. Yeslnik has razed those towns immediately west of us, so we'll find no support, supplies, or warriors should we choose to march. What is left to us, then? To wait here until the armies storm our gates once more?"

"A better deal with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan, then," said Kirren Howen.

Ethelbert nodded, looking very old. "More assurances, perhaps."

"King Ethelbert!" said Myrick the Bold.

The old laird laughed again but then steadied himself and straightened more fully than they had seen in many weeks. "It will not be," he replied, his voice strong. He held up his nearly empty glass. "Be of good cheer, my friends," he said, and he waited for them to return the toast. "For hope has come to us on a boat from Vanguard, and the fool Yeslnik has turned the church against his designs. No more do we fight alone!"

He drained his glass, then threw it against the stone wall, his old eyes sparkling as if reflecting the shattering and flying shards. "Go and retrieve our guests. Myrick, and Tyne, bring me Father Destros and Affwin Wi. Bid her to drag that angry Merwal Yahna along with her."

The two looked at each other in confusion, and Ethelbert said, "Go! Go!" and waved them away.

"Bid for better terms," Kirren Howen said when they were alone.

The old laird nodded, though he understood that he and Kirren Howen would not be in agreement over what those better terms might be. The wily old general was still thinking of Ethelbert as the King of Honce, as Ethelbert himself had been only a day before-assuming, of course, they managed to find some way to defeat Yeslnik of Delaval and his overwhelming garrison. With only oblivion or flight to Behr as the alternative to absolute victory, Ethelbert had held fast his dream of ruling the whole of the land. What would happen, after all, to his people, to Kirren Howen and poor Palfry, if anything other than that unlikely scenario came to fruition? No, losing to Yeslnik was simply unthinkable.

But now another possibility had rudely entered the equation, a third way, perhaps, and as if a great responsibility had been lifted from Ethelbert's tired old shoulders, the words of Dawson McKeege, crude and blunt as they had been, had invigorated his spirits.

At the same time, however, that new element had allowed Laird Ethelbert to physically slump. He could feel old again because the consequence of that inevitability was somehow not quite so dire.

Kirren Howen wanted him to bargain for greater power, a more prominent role, and perhaps even to fight for his well-earned right to the throne, should their alliance prove victorious, but Ethelbert, though he meant to play it out, was more concerned with those he would soon leave behind. A large part of him, the old and tired man, just wanted to agree to the terms the emissaries had brought and be done with it. But when he looked at Kirren Howen, so long his friend and companion, who had sailed with him and fought beside him for all these years, Laird Ethelbert had to nod his agreement.

He threw a wink to his general when the others began making their way into the room. "Better terms," he whispered so that only Kirren Howen could hear.

"Glad we are that you have arrived," Ethelbert said when all had gathered. "I admit to knowing little about your Dame Gwydre, though I am certain that you would regale me the day through with tales of her honor and strength were I to give you the chance."