R. Salvatore - The Bear

"But if you were to join with us…" Cormack replied when all recognized that Laird Ethelbert, staring hard at Bannagran, was not about to say anything at that dangerous point.

"The outcome of the fight would be less assured?" Bannagran asked with a laugh.

"For the good of the common folk of Honce," said Cormack.

"For many more years of war, you mean," said Bannagran. "And for the same outcome for those who survive the march of armies, whether Ethelbert or Yeslnik claimed the throne."

Laird Ethelbert stiffened at that, a remark he clearly considered an insult, but again it was Cormack who spoke up.

"It will be neither!"

The force of his declaration did give Bannagran pause, after which he asked, showing only minimal intrigue, "Do tell."

"When the war is won, Honce will have no king, but a queen."

"A queen? Your Dame Gwydre?"

Cormack didn't blink, his shoulders straight and square, his jaw strong.

"Some huntress from the wilds of Vanguard will conquer Honce?" Bannagran asked, his voice filling with mocking incredulity. He turned to Ethelbert. "And you would agree with this?"

Ethelbert sputtered a bit, shaking his head, and started to explain that the details had not yet been agreed upon, but Bannagran's laughter had him too flustered to make any point.

"How desperate must you be, Laird Ethelbert," the Bear of Honce said. "It pains me to witness you as a broken man. You, who were once a leader among men, and for so long!" He shook his head and laughed again. "I will honor your flag of truce, though I would be doing you a favor to take your head and be done with this foolishness here and now."

Behind Ethelbert, Affwin Wi brought a hand to her sword hilt. Behind Affwin Wi, Bannagran's men similarly moved.

Ethelbert held up his hand to calm his volatile assassin.

"You have revealed your desperation, Laird Ethelbert," Bannagran went on. "Your wisest course-all of you-would be to surrender and accept Yeslnik as king and pray that he have mercy upon you."

Cormack began to respond again, but Ethelbert stepped nearer to him and reached across with his arm, driving the younger man back. "I know you, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. I have seen you in battle. I saved your life once and Laird Prydae's and the lives of many of your soldiers when the powries had you trapped in a gully."

"That was a long time ago."

"But not so long that I have forgotten the Bear of Honce, Prydae's champion," said Ethelbert. "I know your axe and so I know your heart, and that heart cannot suffer the fool Yeslnik who has never bloodied a blade against a man who could defend himself."

It was perfectly quiet then, with all eyes intent on Bannagran-except for those of Bransen, who studied all the others, particularly Reandu. The monk stood completely still, holding his breath.

"I remember that day in the east when Laird Ethelbert did not shy with fear but came on to secure the flank of Pryd," Bannagran replied after a long pause. "Out of respect for that day I allow you to leave now in peace and return to your city. For your own sake, reconsider your foolish course."

"Spend the night in contemplation," Ethelbert suggested. "This is an important decision, friend."

"A night will not change all that has gone before," Bannagran answered.

"As a personal favor to a man who once saved your life," said Ethelbert, "I will return in the morning under a flag of parlay."

Ethelbert and Bannagran stared at each other for a few heartbeats then. Ethelbert started away, his entourage turning in his wake.

All but Affwin Wi. "Highwayman," she called after Bannagran, too, had started off in the other direction.

Bransen stepped past Reandu to match her stare.

"Come and get your sword," the woman teased.

Bransen steeled his gaze and started forward, but Reandu rushed up to grab him. That alone would not have stopped the determined Bransen, but Bannagran veered to move right in front of him, scowling fiercely.

"They came holding a flag of truce," the Bear of Honce said. "Do not dare begin your vendetta under the banner of Pryd Town."

"She challenged-" Bransen stopped, seeing that he would get nowhere here. He looked past Bannagran to Affwin Wi, Merwal Yahna standing close behind her.

"Let it pass," Bannagran warned.

"She wants my sword because she broke her own in the chest of your beloved Delaval," Bransen said to unnerve him.

But Bannagran didn't blink, and Bransen turned back to regard Affwin Wi. She was smiling her wicked smile. Bransen knew that no matter the outcome of the war-whatever alliance or terms of surrender or conquest might occur-he and Affwin Wi would have their fight. And only one would survive it.

On shaky legs the men carried the boulder, the tenth they had brought across the field this morning. Arms ached; fingers had long ago blackened from blood blisters where rocks had fallen upon them. They had to stop but could not, for Laird Panlamaris was ever watchful and full of rage and ire, more than ready to deal out harsh discipline. The catapults had to keep throwing stones, all the day long, and if the porters had to travel farther to gather the stones they needed, then so be it.

Laird Panlamaris's only response to their complaints was to tell them to run faster.

Milwellis watched it all with mounting concern. Day by day by day his father had grown angrier and more obsessed with Dame Gwydre. She was the cause of it all in his bloodshot eyes. She had unleashed the powries upon his beloved Palmaristown.

"Hurry with that missile!" the laird shouted at one crew struggling to get a large, unwieldy boulder up the rise from Weatherguard. "The beam is set and ready to throw! Be quick, I tell you, or you'll feel the cold iron of my sword!"

The flustered and exhausted porters tried to pick up their pace, but they grew uneven in their strides and the support poles moved too far apart, dropping the stone to the grass where it began rolling back down toward Weatherguard.

"Idiots!" Laird Panlamaris yelled, drawing out his sword and starting down the hill.

Milwellis cut in front of him to block his advance. "Father!" he yelled. "Father, no!"

Panlamaris brushed him aside and kept marching toward the crew who were now scrambling desperately, trying to reset their carry poles under the runaway boulder.

"Your point is made, laird," General Harcourt said from the side.

Panlamaris looked to him, as did Milwellis, regaining his balance. When they, too, looked down the hill to see the crew working frantically, finally hoisting the boulder once more and double stepping up the hill toward the waiting catapult, they understood Harcourt's meaning.

"You're thinking that I was making a threat to get them moving," said Panlamaris. "Might be that I was just thinking of killing one of the fools."

"Father, I beg-" said Milwellis, but he stopped abruptly when the laird fixed him with a threatening glare.

"That witch Gwydre set the beasts upon Palmaristown," Panlamaris said in a low and wicked tone. "Upon your home!" He threw his sword down at the ground, where it sank in halfway to the hilt. "Your home! Powrie rats in your home!"

He spun about to see more than a few of his bedraggled warriors staring at him wide-eyed from afar. "Every catapult's throwing!" he cried. "Fill the damned place with stones!"

"I know, Father, but…" Milwellis said, advancing, but when he got within reach, he found his voice choked off as the old and large laird grabbed him by the throat with tremendous force.

"Your home!" Panlamaris screamed in his face. He shoved Milwellis back again. "I don't want you begging," he said. "I want the witch Gwydre begging. On her knees and begging. Aye, but I'll take her good then. I'll have her every way a man can, and when I'm done with her I'll spit on her and kick her and cut her open chin to mound." He narrowed his eyes as he stared hard at his son. "Now get those porters running and get those damned catapults throwing, or I'll put you in the damned basket and fling you against the chapel wall."