R. Salvatore - The Bear

He sighed and mocked his foolishness with a derisive snort, stood up, brushed himself off, and walked down into the village. Bransen was met by many curious stares. More than one person yelped in surprise more than one mother pulled her children aside. Bransen understood their fear; he and Jameston had come upon several towns that had been ravaged by rogue bands of soldiers. He held his open hands before him unthreateningly.

"Far enough!" one old man said to him, brandishing a pitchfork Bransen's way. "Ye got no business here, so turn yerself about and be gone!"

"I am hungry and tired," Bransen replied. "I hoped that I might share some of your food."

"So ye think we've enough to be handing out?" the old man asked.

"I will work for it," Bransen promised. "Repair a roof, repair a wall, or gather wood. Whatever you need, but I could surely use a meal, friend."

"Which army are ye running from?" asked an old woman whose long nose hooked so profoundly that it nearly touched her chin, which hooked upward from her lack of teeth. She looked him over. "Yer voice sounds like Yeslnik, but yer clothes're more akin to Ethelbert. So which?"

"I found these clothes, as my own were too worn," Bransen explained, not wanting his distinctive pants to link him with Affwin Wi and her murderous band. Such a misconception might prove valuable to him in these parts, but still, the thought of anyone confusing him as a member of that Hou-lei troupe disgusted Bransen.

"Yeslnik, then," pronounced the old man. His snarl and the way he then gripped the pitchfork made Bransen know that he didn't think it a good thing.

"I serve no army."

"But ye did!" said the woman.

Bransen shook his head. "No. Not Yeslnik or Laird Ethelbert. I have come from distant Vanguard."

"Never heard of it," said the old man.

"Far to the north across the Gulf of Corona where Dame Gwydre rules with great compassion and love."

"Never heard of it," the old man said again. Those around him nodded their agreement.

It occurred to Bransen then just how parochial this and most communities of Honce truly were and how worldly he had become in so short a time. He thought back to his humble beginnings in Pryd Town, in the days when he could barely stumble the distance across Chapel Pryd's muddy courtyard. Never could he have imagined the road he had journeyed! The enormity of his travels only then began to become clear to him.

"I am no part of this awful war," he said.

The old woman's eyes narrowed. "I'm not for believing ye."

"And how'd ye get that tear on yer head, then?" asked the old man.

Bransen lifted his hand to touch the wound in the middle of his forehead where Affwin Wi had ripped the magical brooch from his flesh. "I… I ran into a low branch," he said.

"I'm still not for believing ye!" the old woman said with a hiss. "Now, ye turn about and be gone from here, or me old fellow here'll stick ye hard with four points o' pain."

"Aye," the old man said, prodding the pitchfork toward Bransen.

Bransen didn't flinch.

"Go on!" the old man insisted, thrusting the fork closer.

Unconsciously, the Highwayman reacted. As the pitchfork stabbed in, Bransen went forward and only slightly to the side, just enough so that the old man couldn't shift the weapon's angle to catch up to him. Once past the dangerous end of the pitchfork, the Highwayman moved with brutal efficiency, grabbing the shaft just below its head with his right hand, then knifing down his left hand with a swift and powerful chop. The handle shattered beneath that blow, leaving the old man with a short staff and Bransen holding the tined end of the pitchfork.

Bransen stepped back out of reach before those around him had even registered the move.

With a yelp of surprise, the old man took the stump of the staff and lifted it above his head like a club, stumble rushing at Bransen with something between terror and outrage.

Bransen dropped the broken end of the pitchfork and brought his arms up above his head in a diagonal cross just as the old man chopped down at his head. The Highwayman caught the club easily in the crook of his blocking arms and, with a sudden uncrossing, tugged the piece of wood from the old man's grasp. Bransen caught it immediately and sent it into a furious spin, twirling it in one hand, working it expertly behind his back and out the other side as he handed it off to his other hand. The old man fell back, throwing his arms up before his face and whining pitifully. No one else made a sound, transfixed by the dazzling maneuvers of this stranger.

Up over his head went the broken handle, spinning furiously. The Highwayman brought it down before him and around his right hip, then back out from behind his left hip. Bransen fell into the rhythm of his display; he used the moment of physical concentration to temporarily block out the darkness that filled his mind. Around and around went the staff, then Bransen planted one end solidly on the ground before him. One hand went atop that planted staff. The Highwayman leaped into the air, inverting into a handstand that brought his kicking feet up level with the eyes of any would-be opponents. He landed gracefully in a spin and used that to launch the staff once more into a whirlwind all about him.

Bransen's eyes weren't even open any longer, as he fell deeper into the trance of physical perfection, deeper into the martial teaching he had devoured in the Book of Jhest his father had penned. What started as a show for the villagers-a clear warning that Bransen hoped would prevent any rash actions leading to injury-had become something more profound and important to the troubled young man, a method of blocking out the ugly world.

Bransen's display went on for many heartbeats, spinning staff, leaping and twisting warrior, swift shifts and breaks in the momentum where Bransen transferred all of his energy into a sudden and brutal stab or swing.

When it finally played out, Bransen came up straight, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes-to stare into two-score incredulous faces.

"By the gods," one woman mouthed.

"Power," a young boy whispered, only because he could find no louder voice than that.

"Who are ye?" the old woman with the hooked nose asked after catching her breath.

"No one who matters, and no one who cares," Bransen answered, throwing the staff to the ground. "A hungry man begging food and willing to work for it. Nothing more."

"Begging?" a younger woman asked skeptically. She clutched a toddler tight in her arms. "Or threatening to take it if it's not given?"

Bransen looked at her closely, reading the anger on her dirty face. She might have been a pretty girl, once, an attractive young woman with blue eyes and wheat-colored hair. Perhaps once soft and inviting like a place to hide from the world, her hair now lay matted and scraggly, unkempt and uncut. The war had played hard on her; the only sparkle in her eyes was one of hatred, reflected in bloodshot lines and weary bags. There remained no soft lines there, just a sharp and hardened person who had seen and borne too much and eaten too little.

Bransen had no answers for her. He gave a helpless little shrug. With a slight bow he turned and started away.

"Now where are ye going?" the old man asked behind him.

"As far as I need to pass beyond this war."

"But ye ain't going away hungry!" the old woman declared. Bransen stopped and turned to face her. "No one's to say that we folk o' Hooplin Downs let a stranger walk away hungry! Get back here and eat yer stew, and we'll find some work for ye to pay for it."

"Might start by cutting me a new handle for me fork," the old man said, and several of the others laughed at that.

Not the young woman with the toddler, though. Obviously displeased by the turn of events, she held her young child close and glared at Bransen. He looked back at her curiously, trying to convey a sense of calm, but the glower did not relent.