R. Salvatore - The Bear

"You'll be rebuilding the place from rubble," Laird Panlamaris promised.

"Artolivan angered you greatly," Prince Milwellis said knowingly, for whatever institutional and philosophical reasoning De Guilbe tried to put on his betrayal of the church, it was clear that De Guilbe's grudge was personal. Had he been shown the degree of respect he believed he had earned, he would never have left Artolivan's side.

De Guilbe couldn't maintain his scowl against the simple reasoning. "There is that, yes," he said dryly.

A commotion in the distance, down the western road and away from the chapel, caught their attention.

"Your coach?" General Harcourt asked.

De Guilbe just shook his head and continued staring at the approaching wagon, rolling along at great speed. He could tell from the sheer recklessness of the driver that something was amiss.

Even as the wagon crossed the first line of sentries, calls of "powries!" echoed throughout the vast encampment.

"Damn her," Panlamaris muttered under his breath but loud enough for them all to hear.

The three waited as a group that included the driver came running toward them.

"Powries!" one man yelled. "An army of the beasts, crawling out of the river, all the way to Delaval City!"

"By the old ones," Milwellis groaned. "Not again."

Laird Panlamaris shook his fist at St. Mere Abelle and cursed Dame Gwydre.

"You are recalled, laird," the messenger explained. "King Yeslnik would have you sweep the riverbank clear of the beasts, while the warships put down their barrelboats."

"My fight is here," Panlamaris said.

"King Yeslnik…" the messenger started to argue, but Panlamaris fixed him with a hateful glare and interrupted.

"If he speaks another word, put him in a catapult basket and throw him at Gwydre," the laird commanded.

The messenger blanched, fell back a few steps, and said no more.

"We must go to the aid of the towns," Harcourt reasoned. "With the armies in the field, they will be defenseless against the bloody caps."

"Palmaristown has a garrison in place," said Panlamaris, for indeed they had left the place defended.

"But the smaller towns…"

Panlamaris turned his glower over his old friend, and at first it seemed as if he was going to simply dismiss the smaller towns as unimportant. But then a crack appeared in the mask of rage that was Panlamaris. "Go then," he said to Harcourt and his son. "Leave me with just the catapult and porter crews. Lead the rest to the coast and sweep it clear, Palmaristown to Delaval."

"You will need more than that if the monks come forth," Milwellis interjected.

"They're cowards and they'll hide," Panlamaris replied. "Get me every villager in Weatherguard and every town about and put a helmet on their every head. The monks need not know of your march."

Milwellis looked to Harcourt skeptically, but the old laird shouted at them both, "Go!" and they dared not disobey or tarry.

As soon as night had settled on the land, Prince Milwellis, Father De Guilbe, and more than three-quarters of the eight thousand soldiers who had settled outside of St. Mere Abelle were on the road, marching hard for Palmaristown and the coast. The old and angry Laird of Palmaristown watched them go and then dismissed them. His focus remained on the chapel up the long and grassy hill, and his catapults continued to throw throughout the long night.

He would stay and punish Gwydre and Artolivan. Never comfortable in spirit form, Brother Jurgyen willed himself along at great speed, wanting to be done with this duty as swiftly as possible. He ran atop the waters and had no corporeal form out here that could be harmed, of course, but still he imagined great monsters lurking beneath the dark gulf, ready to swim up and devour him.

So it went for a long while as he made his way. He passed some Palmaristown warships, giving them a wide berth as they glided westward in full sail. He thought nothing of it until he came upon a second battle group, similarly rushing back to the west.

Had they, perhaps, discovered the Vanguard flotilla?

Nervous but determined, Brother Jurgyen moved swiftly to catch up to the ships and drifted upward, floating above the taffrail of one. He dared not approach, for several sailors stood there, sharing a drink. He could feel the invitation of their corporeal forms, the soft and dangerous invitation and allure of possession.

He remained cautious but knew that he would not be serving Father Premujon and Dame Gwydre well if he did not try to discern the reason for the Palmaristown westward sail.

Their chatter was mostly the gutter talk of bored sailors, but one phrase leaped out at the spirit of Brother Jurgyen: "The river's full o' powries!"

Jurgyen spent a long time trying to sort that out as he continued north across the wide Gulf of Corona, but when he happened upon a third battle group, this time flying the flag of Delaval, and saw that they, too, had turned westward and put up full sail, it all came crystal clear to him.

The monk reversed his course, flying back toward his waiting body in St. Mere Abelle with all speed. He approached the towering walls in a matter of moments, for the return was always much easier than the journey from the body, but as he neared he instinctively veered aside and moved past St. Mere Abelle.

For Jurgyen remembered the earlier siege and how it had broken.

Brother Jurgyen opened his physical eyes a short while later and pulled himself up from his kneeling position. He turned so fast and exited the small chamber with such urgency that he actually broke one of the hinges on the fragile door and stumbled to one knee in the small hallway.

He didn't care. He ran screaming for Dame Gwydre and Father Premujon.

They all gathered immediately, so important was Jurgyen's tale. It was two hours past midnight, but not a one in the room, not Gwydre, Dawson, Premujon, Giavno, Pinower, or any of the others in attendance, showed any signs of sleepiness.

Not after what Brother Jurgyen had told them.

"This is our chance," Dame Gwydre said, her eyes sparkling with hope.

"A dozen brothers across the water to tell the Vanguard flotilla to sail forth with all speed," said Father Premujon. "If they arrive quickly enough we can shatter the Palmaristown siege."

Dame Gwydre shook her head. "Yes, send the brothers forth," she replied. "And Lady Dreamer, too, will sail out, guided by brothers and their gemstones to meet the ships and guide them to a safe berth east of St. Mere Abelle."

Dawson nodded eagerly.

"But we'll not wait the days for the reinforcements to arrive," Gwydre explained. "We've three hundred veterans in our midst and brothers mighty in the use of gemstones."

"Panlamaris is still more than a thousand strong by Brother Jurgyen's guess," Father Premujon replied doubtfully. "We'll be under catapult fire the entire way through the gates and down the hill."

Gwydre's sly smile told them all that she had already figured that problem out. "We'll not walk out the gates, father," she said.

Brother Giavno began to laugh, and all eyes turned his way.

"As Brother Pinower escorted Dawson to us," the monk explained.

Looks of confusion mixed with many nodding heads and grins of understanding.

"You cannot be thinking…" Father Premujon started to argue.

"Oh, but I am," said the Dame of Vanguard.

That very night Dawson McKeege bade Callen Duwornay farewell again, took the arm of Brother Pinower, and went across the dark waters to the west. Six other monks accompanied them to ride with Lady Dreamer and go forth from her deck as spirit-walking scouts guiding the journey across the gulf. At the same time, Brother Jurgyen and a host of other brothers went out in spirit, running across the gulf to find the Vanguard flotilla and instruct them to sail south and also to mark the movements and positions of the many Palmaristown and Delaval warships sailing westward about the gulf.