R. Salvatore - The Bear

"Pray offer my apology to the courier," Milwellis said somberly. "Then discharge the man back to Palmaristown with a bag of coin for his troubles."

"Wisely done, young laird."

"And now, get you to your team. Let us ride in together to bring ruin to these filthy dwarves, that I might turn my army back to Chapel Abelle and exact revenge upon the witch of Vanguard."

"Your safety is paramount for the next few days, my laird," said Harcourt. "The city cannot lose two beloved lairds so near in time to each other."

"Your concern is touching," Milwellis responded with obvious sarcasm. "Truly. Now get to your team, and let us slaughter some powrie marauders."

Harcourt nodded and called for his chariot.

Sails north," Bikelbrin said to Mcwigik, the pair rolling along as fast as their short and bandy legs could carry them. Their caps shone bright this day, and three of Milwellis's soldiers had been taken down between them, although they argued with every stride about who struck the killing blow on the last human. But while powries could be as savage as any creature on Corona and as stubbornly brave as the demon dactyls, they weren't outright suicidal… usually.

"And lots o' them," Mcwigik replied. "Won't be easy getting out."

"Worth trying, even?" asked Bikelbrin. "Sure that our hearts'll be harder to find at the bottom of a river."

"Ye're wanting a stake up yer bum, then?"

Bikelbrin just sighed. "Last kill was me own."

"Ye hit a corpse," Mcwigik retorted. "Too slow with yer hatchet."

"Yach, but when we're done killin' the fools here, know that I'll spill yer own blood, Mcwigik o' Cingarron Lea."

And there it was, spoken openly, as clear an admission that they were surely doomed as any powrie would ever utter.

Mcwigik's breath blew out then, and he let out a little yelp and staggered forward.

"Spear!" Bikelbrin explained when he glanced his friend's way, to see the shaft of a javelin dragging behind Mcwigik. His eyes widened as he looked past Mcwigik, and Mcwigik, too, turned about to note a chariot bearing down on them, the red-haired man driving it, all bedecked in bejeweled shining bronze armor and hoisting another javelin to throw.

Mcwigik was flying then, thrown out of the way by his friend Bikelbrin. He bounced sidelong over the banking to tumble and bounce through the grass, cursing with every painful twist. He landed facedown in the mud by the riverbank, half in and half out of the flowing water.

He tried to get up.

Above him, he heard Bikelbrin gasp in pain.

Mcwigik struggled to his knees and elbows.

Above him, horses whinnied furiously, their hooves pounding the ground like thunder, and a shriek from one of the beasts told Mcwigik that his friend had gotten in a strike or two. Bikelbrin grunted again and cursed and Mcwigik heard the chariot rock and bounce as it passed over him. Then it pulled up short, and Bikelbrin cursed some more.

"Come on, ye blood-haired son of a fisherman's whore!" the powrie cried, his voice thick with pain.

Mcwigik knew his friend was dying. He forced himself up higher and reached back, grasping the spear shaft with one hand. He closed his eyes and cried out as Bikelbrin shouted his final curse and yanked the spear free, dropping it into the dark water beside him. He tried to stand but couldn't get higher than one knee, and when he lifted his head upright, the world began to spin before him.

He saw his enemy, though, through the dizzying blur. The red-haired human approached in a straightforward and fearless manner, sword in hand and dripping blood.

Bikelbrin's blood, Mcwigik realized.

The powrie threw his short iron sword, and the man yelped and stumbled back. He didn't fall, though, and when he straightened again, the side of his face covered in blood, he began his determined march against the now unarmed and badly weakened Mcwigik.

"Yach, but ye're a boot-stomped frog!" Mcwigik said, his sentence truncated by the heavy, two-handed swing of a broadsword.

He didn't feel the water as he splashed facedown into the Masur Delaval.

The last thing he heard was a distant human voice calling out, "Your face, my laird!" to his killer.

Hold your course," Harcourt whispered repeatedly to Milwellis over the next few days. Scouts returned from all parts, assuring the new Laird of Palmaristown that there was no enemy force congregating anywhere near his already battered and wounded city.

Milwellis grimaced with every repetition, always looking north along the river, always looking home. "He should come forth," he replied several times, referring to the King of Honce, who, by all accounts, was holed up in his walled city, surrounded by tens of thousands of soldiers.

"His hesitance is your gain," Harcourt answered on a foggy morning along the riverbank. "We are more than halfway to Delaval City from Palmaristown and have swept the land and the river clear of powries through all of that populated region."

"The people sing praise for the King of Honce," Milwellis reminded.

"They sing louder for the savior Laird of Palmaristown. For you. And King Yeslnik hears those songs, do not doubt. Your march has been as brilliant as courageous, and all the folk are taking notice. You'll hear few songs to Bannagran now and many to Milwellis."

"King Yeslnik will come to see me as a rival," Milwellis remarked.

"He will come to realize that you are his only hope."

"And yet, this Bannagran peasant controls more of his army than I."

"Where is Bannagran?" Harcourt asked. "The threat is here, the bloody caps, and Bannagran has not arrived on the field. King Yeslnik values his own safety above all else, and you, Laird Milwellis, secure that. With every victory you strike, with every powrie force massacred and drowned, Palmaristown stands taller."

"My father was defeated by Yeslnik's enemies," Milwellis stated flatly.

"All the more reason for you to hold to your course and secure the whole of the Masur Delaval," replied Harcourt, and his voice did crack a bit at the painful reminder. "You must climb upon your father's broad shoulders and stand taller than he. Your actions now, for Honce and not just for Palmaristown, secure your place as the second of Yeslnik. All the coast for Palmaristown, from our city across the gulf and down the Mantis Arm all the way to Ethelbert dos Entel. That was your father's dream, and will be your reality."

Milwellis stared at loyal Harcourt for a long while, truly appreciating the man. He knew that Harcourt was hurting badly-as badly as he was-by the loss of Laird Panlamaris. He knew that Harcourt, like he, wanted nothing more than to turn back for Palmaristown and then march east to Chapel Abelle to repay the traitors. But Harcourt never once wavered, his eyes and words and vision locked on the mission at hand, solidly for the benefit of Palmaristown and, now that he was laird, for the benefit of Milwellis.

"We come into lands where Bannagran should arrive," Milwellis said. "Narrow the line nearer to the riverbank and let us increase our pace. If any powries have moved farther inland, let Bannagran have them. I wish to see Delaval City before the week's end."

Harcourt considered the orders for a moment, then nodded and smiled at the young laird. "Wisely decided," he said.

"King Yeslnik will see the flag of Palmaristown before he spies the banner of the peasants of Pryd," Milwellis assured his general. "He'll be knowing who it was that kept him safe in his high walls."

Harcourt's smile was genuine. His heart stung for the loss of his old friend Panlamaris, but it lifted with hope anew at the cunning and ambition of the man's red-haired son. Laird Panlamaris was dead, but Palmaristown would know a stronger and brighter day.

Laird Milwellis would rise now, above all others. Of that, Harcourt was confident.