R. Salvatore - The Bear

"You can lie to me, Bransen Garibond, but you cannot lie to yourself. Listen to your own words, for they speak not to the truth in your heart. That is the source of your malady. That is why you again need the gemstone tied tightly to your forehead. When your heart is not right, so, too, will go astray your body and mind."

"You know nothing of me," he shot right back.

Dame Gwydre looked at him carefully for a few heartbeats. "Perhaps I do not. Perhaps I was wrong to think so highly of Bransen Garibond."

"Perhaps you were. Would you rescind your Writ of Passage, then, Queen of Honce?"

Dame Gwydre wore a sour expression. She shook her head, though in response to his question or simply to show her disgust Bransen could not fathom.

Bransen didn't even follow her back to the camp to rejoin the monks. He just walked off to the north and the coast, then to the west, chewing his lip with rage every step of the way.

He began to see signs of the besieging force as St. Mere Abelle came into clear sight, sitting up on the high and rocky cliff, unscalable from the ocean and a fairly steep ascent from all three other directions. Bransen climbed a tree to gain a better view of the field and the situation. Directly down the hill from the front gates, he saw the line of catapults, and even as he watched, one let fly a large stone. It arced through the air to hit the turf directly before the wall, skipping up to crack against the wall itself. It bounced harmlessly back to the grass, where it lay among dozens and dozens of other boulders.

They were halfway between midnight and dawn, and still Ethelbert's catapults were throwing?

The sight alarmed Bransen, for Cadayle was within those walls.

Another rock went into the air, and he grimaced, imagining her huddled with terror, hugging Callen, as it slammed in hard, shaking the foundation of the chapel complex. A third stone went up shortly after, and this one cleared the wall. Bransen nearly cried out in fear.

A moment later, he was glad that he had not, for movement below him and not far from the tree in which he was perched caught his attention. He froze in place, staring down, sorting out the movement as a small group of soldiers, obviously Palmaristown, patrolled the region. He thought to wait them out, but the report of another stone slamming into the stone of the complex startled him. He had to get to Cadayle!

The Highwayman came down from the tree in a rush, using the malachite to ease and control his fall. He got to the lowest branch before being spotted by a leather-clad soldier some ten strides away-ten strides or one great, gemstone-enhanced leap for the Highwayman. He soared toward the shouting man, who lifted a battle-axe at the sight. The man took his weapon in both hands as he realized to his horror that the Highwayman flew toward him from on high, a leap that no man should have been able to make. Awkwardly, he turned the blade and swiped it upward as his attacker descended.

The Highwayman easily kicked it aside with one foot, landing heavily on the other onto the shoulder of the man, who groaned and lurched and flew to the side. The Highwayman didn't fight the momentum, just threw himself over sidelong, settling in a deep crouch. The man he had landed upon didn't fare as well, though. He stumbled and staggered off balance, grabbing at his wounded shoulder before tripping over a root and tumbling to the ground.

The Highwayman was over him in an instant, but he didn't land a finishing blow. He didn't have to, for in the tangle of his fall the poor soldier had fallen on his axe blade. He writhed in pain, a long but superficial gash running the length of his ribs.

Bransen stood straight and swung about to face another soldier coming in hard, spear extended. Up into the air the Highwayman leaped, higher than any man should, and when he tucked his legs, his feet were up higher than the newest opponent's head. She lifted her spear to try to fend, but the Highwayman went right over her. He landed lightly and sprang up again, lifting above her as she turned and spinning a tight circuit as he went so that he could launch a heavy circle kick that met her squarely at the top of her ribs and the base of her throat as she came around. She flew back as if she, too, had been launched from one of Milwellis's catapults, her spear flying harmlessly aside.

Shouts erupted from the brush as more soldiers closed in on the Highwayman, but he thought of Cadayle and was having none of it. He sprinted off for the distant chapel, his strides lengthening as his fell into the malachite, great bounds like that of a hunting cat or a fleeing deer. He easily outdistanced the pursuit, even outrunning the volley of spears that were thrown his way.

With Cadayle in his thoughts, the Highwayman would not slow, and when he reached the base of the high wall of St. Mere Abelle, the malachite's power flowing through his limbs, he seemed, to those watching from the distant trees and to those monks cheering him on from the parapets, to simply run up the wall.

He shrugged off their shoulder clapping and well-intentioned hugs and leaped down to the courtyard, sprinting across the way to the room he had shared with Cadayle.

His relief at seeing her, eyes and smile wide with surprise and pure joy, was matched only by the sincere sense of calm that came over him when she wrapped him in a great hug. They fell asleep in each other's arms, all tears and giggles, and Bransen felt as if he could stay there, could hide there, forevermore.

It proved a short respite, for barely a couple of hours later, Callen Duwornay burst into the room, calling out and waving her arms frantically.

"It's begun!" she cried. "Oh, it's begun, and a beautiful thing it is!"

Bransen snapped into a sitting position. "What?"

"Gwydre's fight, don't ya know? Sweeping the field, she is! Oh, come and look!"

Bransen and Cadayle scrambled out of bed and dressed quickly, then rushed out of the keep and across the courtyard, to join all of those remaining inside St. Mere Abelle atop the front wall.

Bransen's pulse pounded in his veins, for he heard the shouts of battle before he ever got up the ladder. Horns blew and magical lightning bolts crackled in the early-morning air. By the time he reached the parapet, slowing only to help Cadayle up the last couple of steps, several lines of thick black smoke rose into the dawn's light.

"They're burning the catapults!" said one of the monks on the wall, a young brother who seemed as if he was yet to reach puberty and whose high-pitched voice confirmed his youthful appearance.

The brother kept talking, but Bransen wasn't listening. He moved right up to the wall and peered over intently. The rout was on before him, and, truly, it was a lopsided affair. Gwydre and her force had charged in from the east, from in front of the rising sun; Bransen could picture the spectacle of that, and could imagine the horror of Panlamaris's men as they tried to sort out the enemy assault with the blinding glare behind. He felt a tinge of regret and tried hard to suppress it.

"We've suffered their rocks every day and every night," Cadayle reminded.

Bransen nodded. A large group of Panlamaris's men broke away to the west, in full panic and retreat, and Bransen spied the large man-the laird himself-screaming at them and waving his great sword.

All along the wall the monks and others began cheering wildly, even more so when a group of the Palmaristown garrison rushed their way, scrambling up the hill, all crying and begging for mercy.

"All quarter offered!" several brothers began to shout. "These misled warriors are our brothers and sisters!"

Bransen felt as if the slightest breeze might knock him from his feet.

"Get out there," Cadayle said in his ear, through the tumult rising all around them.