R. Salvatore - The Bear

Bannagran growled, "Take him!" more ferociously. None of the soldiers needed a reminder of the power and severity of their laird. A soldier to Bransen's right lowered his shoulder behind his shield and rushed in suddenly, an obvious path and one that Bransen could have easily sidestepped.

But he didn't. He turned back to look plaintively at Master Reandu. "I need to talk with you," he said right before the shield slammed against him and sent him flying. He would have tumbled to the ground, but a second shield-rushing soldier hit him hard before he fell, jolting him upright. The man drove ahead as his companion from the other side continued to advance, pinning Bransen between them.

"With ease!" Master Reandu shouted. "He is not resisting!"

But the soldiers, as if considering the apparent submissiveness to be a dangerous ruse, came on in full. Several sheathed their swords as they huddled in, freeing up fists covered in metal gauntlets so that they could launch heavy punches at Bransen.

He curled up, protecting his most sensitive areas as the gang jostled him and slammed him, punched and kicked him.

"Bannagran!" he heard Reandu yell as he was smashed to the ground, but the monk's voice already seemed far, far away. Bransen curled up tight on his side, and a barrage of kicks battered him to semiconsciousness. He felt himself tugged over to his stomach, his hands wrenched behind his back and bound at the wrists with heavy, coarse rope. From that rope a second rope was strung, this one wrapping about the front of his waist, holding his hands fast and tight against his back. His captors slid a long pole under his elbows and across his back.

A man grabbed each end of the pole and roughly hoisted Bransen up from the ground. "Stand!" the guard leader called. Bransen stumbled to comply, but the man slugged him hard on the back of the head.

By then a crowd had gathered outside of Chapel Pryd's gate, and they began wailing and calling out in protest at the treatment of the Highwayman, the man who had brought such hope and justice to them in times not so distant. More soldiers appeared, and Bannagran faced the peasants down with an awful stare.

"Clear the way!" he ordered his soldiers and warned the peasants all at once. He turned to the crew, handling Bransen very roughly, punching him and tugging him, keeping him off balance as if they feared he would suddenly burst into motion and slay them all.

"He is not resisting, Laird Bannagran!" Reandu pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. The soldiers dragged and carried Bransen away, past Bannagran, who fixed him with a hateful stare.

Reandu rushed from the porch. "Don't kill the boy. He is just a boy," Reandu begged.

Bannagran moved to intercept him. "He said he knows who killed Delaval," Bannagran replied. "That is his only possible salvation."

"You will spare him?"

"It's not my choice to make."

"The people of Pryd will not forgive you, Laird Bannagran."

Bannagran looked at him as if it were foolish for Reandu to even believe that Bannagran cared.

But Reandu hit the laird with a different truth, one less easy to brush aside. "And you won't forgive yourself," he said.

Bannagran blinked.

"I will attend to him personally with a soul stone," Reandu offered.

"Once he is secured, you will have your chance to heal the outlaw."

Reandu seemed satisfied with that until Bannagran added, "The more you heal him, the more we can hurt him without killing him." The ferocious Laird of Pryd, the Bear of Honce, spat on the ground and turned away. As he neared the gate, many peasants still clustered before it, he barked, "Move aside!" How they scattered!

Master Reandu stood on the chapel walkway, rubbing his face wearily and trying hard to keep his breathing steady. Several brothers crowded behind him, assaulting him with a barrage of questions about why Bransen had come or whether he would really be executed. Reandu didn't answer any of them but just looked toward Castle Pryd. The sounds of the crowd informed him of the moment when Bransen was dragged through the strong iron gates and to the dungeons soon after, Reandu knew.

The cold and wet, filthy dungeons that smelled of death. I trust that you are comfortable," Bannagran said to Bransen, a ridiculous question. The gaolers at Castle Pryd were well prepared to handle this dangerous man. They had the Highwayman chained by his wrists and ankles, the top chains lifting him a couple of feet from the floor by his arms, the bottom set securing his feet with just enough give to allow the ruffians to bow Bransen at the waist, wrapping him about a central beam. In deference to the man's inexplicable physical abilities, the gaolers had added a devious twist to the harness by cutting a ridge into the center of the beam where his belly rested. Into that ridge they slid a sword blade, edge out, then adjusted the chains to pull Bransen snugly into the beam, the blade tightly secured against his belly. Any struggling, indeed, even if he relaxed his weight onto the beam, would surely eviscerate the miserable prisoner. Hanging there, arms and legs locked at a forward angle, Bransen could only gain relief by sucking in his gut and turning back his shoulders so that the bottom of his rib cage hooked the edge of the beam and supported much of his weight. He couldn't hold that stressful position for very long, however, and the mere act of hanging there pushed Bransen to his limits of emotional and physical discipline.

The sun was nearing its high point in the day-lit world above, though Bransen was hardly aware of the time, when Bannagran at last entered the chamber. He walked around Bransen slowly, taking full measure. Bransen had been stripped to the waist. Bannagran nodded in apparent respect that the man had lasted this long without bloodying his belly.

"Have I thanked you for your hospitality?" Bransen asked, though he could do no more than whisper without inflicting pain.

"You appreciate your accommodations?"

"Eating will be difficult, but I have found some sleep already," the impertinent Highwayman replied.

Bannagran snorted and shook his head as he walked before the captive. He peered over the beam for a closer look at Bransen's midsection. "No blood yet," he said. "Impressive."

"You could always walk behind me and pretend I am one of your barnyard lovers," said Bransen.

Bannagran stared at him hatefully, then slapped him hard across the face. "This is no game, boy," he warned. "Your life's hanging by a rope."

"A chain, actually. Two!"

"And I hold the other end," Bannagran finished.

"Then let it go and be done with me."

"You pray that I'll make it that easy for you."

"You assume that I anticipate justice or fairness. I have learned to expect differently from Laird Bannagran."

The Bear slapped him again, a stinging blow that nearly pushed him onto the blade.

"Why have you come back to Pryd?" Bannagran demanded. He paused and looked past Bransen to the cell door to ensure they were alone. "Why have you done this to me?"

"To you?"

"I warned you, publicly, that you could not return here until King Yeslnik determined your innocence," said Bannagran.

"But you know I am innocent."

"That matters not at all!" Bannagran growled. "And you know it!"

"But it should matter."

Bannagran growled again.

"And if it doesn't matter, then nothing does," Bransen went on. "Nothing. And nothing that you can do to me matters one bit."

"Do not be too assured of that," Bannagran warned.

Bransen stared at him in response, his eyes flaring with intensity. He exhaled and relaxed suddenly, allowing his weight to come forward onto his waist against the sword. A line of blood appeared on Bransen's naked belly almost immediately, the sharp blade digging in.