R. Salvatore - The Bear

In the early afternoon, Bransen had a good idea of where they were exactly, recognizing the small town just three days' normal march north of Pryd. They crossed fields now, open and level, and heard the cries of onlookers.

They just ignored those commotions and kept right on bounding along, knowing that none of the concerned citizens could hope to catch up to them.

They ended earlier that night than on the previous, for Bransen knew that they were but a couple of hours north of Pryd Town, and he didn't want to go in under cover of darkness.

"Nor do I wish us exhausted," he explained to Gwydre as they settled in under the stars once more. "We must be sharp and rested for our parlay with Bannagran, for convincing him will be no easy feat."

"But you think it possible?"

"If I didn't, I would never have so inconvenienced you." He tossed her a wink and lay back on his natural bedding.

"Bransen, why?" Gwydre asked him before he had even closed his eyes. He sat up to his elbows.

"Why?"

"Why this change in you, so full of hope and determination?"

"I told you when I returned with Badden's head-"

"That was a long time ago," Gwydre interrupted. "Not so long in months, perhaps, but ages in terms of what we have experienced since. And even then, when I saw that you had come around to the notion of a just cause and a greater good, you were not nearly as animated as this warrior I see before me now."

"You disapprove?"

"Hardly that!"

Bransen laughed. "Three good women, Dame Gwydre," he answered.

"Your wonderful wife, surely."

"And her mother."

"Dawson would agree."

"And you," Bransen added.

Dame Gwydre did not blush, but neither did she reply.

"The difference between you and Yeslnik, particularly regarding the lives of those you would rule, is too great for even stubborn Bransen Garibond to dismiss," Bransen explained. "When winter fell deep in Pellinor, you brought your subjects into the warmth of your home. You fed them and gathered wood for them and made sure that they were safe. In such a state, I expect a hungry Yeslnik would eat his subjects."

"Bransen, no!"

"He would feed them to his wife, at least," the Highwayman replied. His grin disappeared after a moment, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the situation. "Honce will be united under a single ruler. Of that, I have no doubt. The brutality of the war between Delaval and Ethelbert has assured that outcome-few holdings could hope to stand on their own any longer, even without the deep resentments that have been fostered from land to land and laird to laird. If Yeslnik is king, his rule will be marred by almost continual war, for the people will suffer and the lairds will face uprisings. Even the church will turn against the common folk, for Father De Guilbe, I assure you, is an unpleasant and wicked man."

"I have seen enough of him to know the truth of your words. But I assure you that such is not the case with Father Premujon."

Bransen nodded his agreement, then lowered his gaze, considered his own words, and shrugged. "This is worth the fight," he said quietly. He looked up at Dame Gwydre. "This is worth dying for."

"Powries!" Yeslnik screamed. He threw a pillow across the room. "Always it is something to deny me my glory! Can they not all just accept God's proclamation and let me have my due?"

"Soon, my love," said Queen Olym, who sat at her vanity powdering her cheeks and nose.

"It is unpleasant!" Yeslnik whined.

Olym dropped her powder box to the vanity with a clunk and swung her ample form about to better view her husband. "It always will be," she said. "There will always be a powrie, or a peasant, or a nasty laird to cause mischief. That is the way of it, and that is why you have Bannagran and Milwellis. You need not bother with the details of order, just the luxuries that order brings to you-to us-as King and Queen of Honce. So there are powries running the river coast, killing peasants. Oh dear, but it pains my heart!" She fluttered her eyes and mockingly grasped her chest, but came out of the pose with a stern and fixed look. "Why do I care and why does King Yeslnik? The silly dwarves cannot harm us behind these walls. I did hope to summer in Palmaristown this year, but the city is still damaged anyway, and next year will suffice."

Yeslnik gave a deep breath and slouched his shoulders, his whole body relaxing. He walked over to his wife as she turned back to her large mirror and retrieved her powder box. He grasped her thick flesh at the base of her neck and began kneading it with his fingers. The woman paused in her powdering.

"You always know what to say to make it better," Yeslnik said quietly, bringing his lips to Olym's ear and nuzzling there as he finished speaking.

Olym went back to powdering. "Yes, my king, and you always seem to need reminding," she answered somewhat distantly.

"I should be quick and away this morning," he said. Olym's eyes widened, and she looked at his reflection in the mirror curiously.

"I shan't allow Bannagran and Milwellis to have all the fun in killing the little beasts," said Yeslnik, and as a smile widened on Olym's face, he added, "I do so love the smell of blood on my sword."

For a large woman, Queen Olym could move with speed and grace, and she did so then, rising and spinning out of her seat to bull-rush Yeslnik halfway across the room where they tumbled together onto the cushiony bed.

Sometime later, King Yeslnik ran along the wall of Castle Pryd, excited by the news. He came to the northeast tower and took the stairs to and three at a time, finally gaining the roof, where his lookouts greeted him, pointing excitedly to the northeast, where a large encampment could be seen just off the riverbank.

"Laird Bannagran has come," Yeslnik said with a wide smile.

"No, my king," a lookout corrected, and Yeslnik snapped a glare over him.

"It is Prince Milwellis of Palmaristown, King," another man explained. "He has swept the riverbank clear of powries as his fleet has scoured the river." The man pointed upriver, directing Yeslnik's gaze to the flotilla of warships barely visible in the foggy distance.

"Milwellis?" Yeslnik murmured, trying to make sense of the distance and the trials the man must have conquered to have come so far so fast. "Prepare my coach, prepare my army! We march this day!"

He rushed from the tower, and what a glorious morning it had been! He could hardly wait to tell Olym of the news, and he wondered if he had enough time before the arrangements for departure were completed to enjoy the company of his wife once more.

He didn't, for his army, bottled up inside of Delaval City all these days while reports of powries swept in from all along the Masur Delaval, was more than ready to march. The eastern gates of Delaval City swung wide and the grand parade flowed forth, endless lines of horses and chariots and marching footmen. In their midst rode Yeslnik and Olym, inside a gilded and armored coach, surrounded by the finest horsemen of the king's army, their bronze spear tips shining brightly in the morning light. Right behind that group rode Father De Guilbe in a coach no less decorated, monks flanking him on either side, chanting with every step.

As they neared the encampment, soldiers all about buzzing that it was indeed Milwellis, whispering with awe that he had come so far and so fast and had so thoroughly dispatched the wretched powries, Yeslnik bade his coachmen to drive on harder. Before the sun had crested overhead, Yeslnik found himself seated beside his wife on the top of his ornamental coach, where a pair of thrones had been set. From on high they watched Milwellis's approach, the man riding up in a fine chariot, General Harcourt driving a second by his side.