R. Salvatore - The Bear

"At least a day," Dawson said.

Kirren Howen and the other two generals grimaced at the interruption, but Ethelbert just laughed it off.

"I've not the time," he replied. "But pray do tell me, Dawson of Vanguard, is your lady as crass and irreverent as her emissary?"

For the first time it seemed as if Ethelbert had taken Dawson off his balance, as the old sea dog stumbled for a reply.

"Dame Gwydre is beloved by her people," Cormack dared say. "Her bloodline is long and true, good lairds all. Kind and generous."

"Not traits that will aid us against the wretched Yeslnik," said Ethelbert.

"But a demeanor that will endear many to her cause as we do battle," Cormack promised.

"Yes, you have already claimed as much," the old laird replied doubtfully. "I accept your… impatience as a call to action, but of course I cannot accept your terms as presented."

The three emissaries looked to each other nervously.

"You'd have us sail away?" Dawson said.

"If that is your choice. Did you really expect me to cede Honce to you before it is even won?"

"This is the choice of Father Artolivan, and if Honce is to be won it'll be no small part owed to his doing."

"And no small part to Dame Gwydre's, and no small part to the warriors of Ethelbert who have resisted the dominion of Yeslnik and Delaval before him for all these bloody months. More than ten thousand warriors from a multitude of holdings and fighting under my flag have given their lives for King Ethelbert. Am I to disrespect their loyalty and sacrifice?"

"You cannot win."

"I could take hostage emissaries from Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan and use them to barter with Yeslnik. I doubt that he would give to me any less than Dawson of Vanguard has offered." Ethelbert let that uncomfortable thought hang in the air for a few heartbeats before breaking the tension with a smile. "But you see, friends, I hate Yeslnik more than you do. I prefer the alliance."

"We're not to turn the other lairds to the hoped-for flag of a King Ethelbert," Dawson reminded. "There's too much blood on the ground."

"Tell them to fight for Dame Gwydre or for the monks and Chapel Abelle," said Ethelbert.

Father Destros shifted uncomfortably.

"Your pardon, Father. For St. Mere Abelle," the laird clarified.

The monk bowed to Ethelbert.

"I care not of the promises you give to the minor lairds," said Ethelbert. "But they are not binding to me or to my generals or to my holding. Where was Dame Gwydre when Delaval declared himself King of Honce?"

"Warring with Samhaists, trolls, goblins, and barbarians in the north!" said Dawson.

"Only I slowed Delaval's march," Ethelbert went on as if Vanguard's struggles hardly mattered. "Only Laird Ethelbert dared step forth to oppose the tyrant. You say that some of the lairds loyal to Yeslnik may turn to our cause, to Dame Gwydre's cause, but how many of the lairds now fighting for good Laird Ethelbert will then desert to the more apparent winner?

"So, please, good man Dawson, do not bluster and bluff. Your loyalty to your lady is commendable and speaks well of her and for her. We will need such conviction if we are to prevail over the dastardly Yeslnik. Let us join and complete that deed and then worry over the spoils that may remain."

"The other lairds-"

"Tell them whatever you would tell them to turn them against Yeslnik," Ethelbert replied sharply. "Most are not fools and likely hate the foppish pretender already. He is not half the man as his uncle, Laird Delaval. But I will not pledge fealty to your Dame Gwydre or to your church. I will, however, promise not to turn my armies against you once our common foe is defeated in exchange for your like promise."

Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila exchanged concerned and confused glances.

"Perhaps you should sail back to St. Mere Abelle to deliver the terms," Laird Ethelbert said. "And then sail back here to tell me if they are agreeable to Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan."

Dawson sputtered to respond to that absurd notion.

"Then make a decision, Dawson of Vanguard," Laird Ethelbert demanded. "Here and now, or be gone from my docks."

Dawson's weather-beaten face scrunched up as he eyed the old man dangerously.

"Do you think that your Dame Gwydre will be pleased that her man let his wounded pride sever an alliance that we both need?" Ethelbert said simply. He paused for just a moment before adding, "Have we an agreement?"

"You're everything they said you'd be, old laird," Dawson replied, his face and posture relaxing. "And aye, we'll throw in with you to the death of Yeslnik."

"Palfry, my good lad," Ethelbert said to his attendant. "A feast is in order to celebrate this union. See to it."

The young page bowed and ran out of the room.

"Go and retrieve your crew," Ethelbert said. "A night of celebration and plentiful food will see them well on their way."

"I would stay, good Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said. "Along with Milkeila, my wife." He put his arm about the shaman.

"Your wife?" the old laird repeated with clear skepticism. How many times Ethelbert had witnessed such mixed marriages, although usually between one from Honce and one from Behr. Rarely had they succeeded.

"We will serve here, with your permission, as representatives of the Order of Blessed Abelle and of Dame Gwydre," Cormack offered.

"Well, indeed," said Ethelbert, and a sly smile spread across his face. "And given. But can you fight?"

"We can fight."

Ethelbert nodded and waved them away. Before they had even left the room he turned to Kirren Howen and to Myrick and Tyne, who drew very near. "Prepare a flotilla for Jacintha. I would advise my friends in Behr of the hopeful turn of events."

"Perhaps they will at last send us more warriors," said Myrick.

"It is possible," said Ethelbert, but with obvious skepticism. He looked to Kirren Howen, who nodded to show that he understood the true purpose here: to secure an escape route, should one be necessary, and to bring another possible ally into the mix should Ethelbert and Dame Gwydre prove victorious over Yeslnik. True to Ethelbert's word, Dawson's crew ate well that night at a grand feast in the open market outside the doors of Castel Ethelbert. The laird and his generals attended, but only for a short time.

Long enough, though, for Cormack to finally get near to the woman warrior from Behr. He tried to strike up a conversation with her regarding her heritage and her sword, but she pretended not to understand him and just turned away.

In that turn, however, the former monk got a glimpse under the fold of her black silk blouse and was able to recognize a star-shaped, gem-studded brooch she had pinned to her chest. Perhaps there were more swords such as hers and Bransen's in the deserts to the south, but surely there were no other such distinctive magical brooches.

"It's Bransen's sword," Cormack later explained to Dawson on Lady Dreamer's deck long after the moon had set in the west.

"How do you know?"

"She wears his brooch," said Milkeila.

"He's dead, then," Dawson said, his voice full of regret. "Might be that he was killed by Ethelbert. You two should sail with me, then."

Cormack shook his head. "Milkeila, perhaps."

"Not without my husband."

"Then, no," said Cormack. "We will be safe here. Father Destros is a man of fine reputation within my order. A man loyal to Father Artolivan."

"And you want to find out about Bransen," Dawson reasoned.

"We owe him that much at least."

"You had best walk with care and question in whispers," Dawson advised. "If it was Ethelbert who killed him, those answers might get you two tossed into the sea."

Dawson patted Cormack on the shoulder and gave Milkeila a hug before heading belowdecks to plot his course.