R. Salvatore: The Bear

Every dwarf on the barrelboat nodded grimly and vowed revenge-payback many times over for the horror inflicted upon their companions. The King of Honce arrives," Laird Panlamaris said to his son Milwellis, Father De Guilbe, Harcourt, and several other commanders.

"If he is everything I have heard him to be, I can hardly breathe for my anticipation," said Harcourt dryly.

Father De Guilbe blanched at the clear breach of etiquette-to mock a king in such a manner!-but Laird Panlamaris chuckled and patted Harcourt's strong shoulder. The two went back twoscore years to when they were young men, barely more than boys, sailing the high seas side by side, battling powries and pirates and doing a bit of pirating on their own. Harcourt had only recently traveled across Honce with Milwellis, advising the young general as he laid waste to the Mantis Arm and the coastal communities along Felidan Bay. If Panlamaris was to entrust the training of his promising son to the man, then surely they were familiar enough for a goodhearted jab, even one aimed at the would-be King of Honce. Neither Harcourt nor Milwellis had returned from the walls of Ethelbert dos Entel with a high opinion of the king, given that Yeslnik had turned tail and fled when victory seemed assured.

"He is a treasure," Panlamaris agreed. "As opposite his uncle Delaval as any man could be."

"And you loved Laird Delaval like a brother," Milwellis interjected, his sour expression showing that he, too, wasn't overjoyed at the unexpected arrival of Yeslnik's fleet. Indeed, Delaval and Panlamaris had been cut from the same cloth, one similar to Laird Ethelbert. Powerful warriors, brave in battle, stern in rule, and lusty with the spoils of their conquests, they exemplified an older code from when the world was wilder. Although none predated the Order of Abelle, all three had come to power under the harsh religious instruction of the Samhaists and at a time when the sword was more important than the notion of diplomacy.

"He is the King of Honce, by Delaval's proclamation," Father De Guilbe reminded them. "His bold actions regarding my order have set in motion long-overdue corrections against the weakness that has crept into the hearts of the brothers."

"Bold actions," Panlamaris echoed with a snort. He had seen the result of those bold actions firsthand when his army had charged the wall of Chapel Abelle only to be battered by a magical barrage the likes of which Honce had never before witnessed. "Has he made a new enemy where he might've found a friend, I wonder?"

Father De Guilbe's face went very tight, and he crossed his thick arms over his large chest and leaned back against the wall. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall and with wide and strong shoulders. The fact that he wore the brown robes of his order was the only thing that separated him physically from the burly and toughened warriors in the room.

"You would side with Father Artolivan now?" De Guilbe asked.

Panlamaris scoffed. "He has thrown in with the witch of Vanguard who brought powries to my shore. Bring me Artolivan, and I'll gladly hoist him on a stake as I did the powries."

"But you just implied-"

Panlamaris cut him off. "Yeslnik turned the church away, and so we are left with a monster." He paused for a moment and glared at the monk, who backed down. "To the docks," Panlamaris ordered them all. "Let us meet the king, though he is likely kneeling before the rail, reminding himself of what he ate for lunch."

They shared another laugh at Yeslnik's expense and went out of the room, Panlamaris leading.

Grand Dame Olym was already in her slip, her gangplank lowered, when Panlamaris and his entourage walked on the planks of the long wharf. Knights of Castle Delaval stood at silent attention in two rows upon the dock, halberds in hand, eyes staring straight ahead.

"Very impressive," Harcourt noted, grinning.

Laird Panlamaris, though, was not pleased. Upon the ship stood King Yeslnik, and there was something about his demeanor that immediately unsettled the fiery laird. Some confidence, he decided. The king started down the decline, his steps sure; he didn't even grasp the ropes on either side but descended quickly and steadily.

Behind him came more guards, then Queen Olym, followed by still more Delaval City warriors.

Yeslnik swept through the line of his guards, moving to stand right before the Laird of Palmaristown.

"You have reclaimed your city?"

"Of course. Powrie dwarves. Tough little ones, but they felt the bite of a stake up the arse." Panlamaris bit off the last word as Queen Olym rushed up to stand beside her husband.

No, not quite beside him, Panlamaris noted, but one step behind him to the left. It was a subtle shift from the norm for this couple, but sometimes, Panlamaris knew, the subtle indications would prove the most important.

"Dwarves loyal to Dame Gwydre, I am told." Panlamaris looked at Father De Guilbe.

"That will aid us," Yeslnik replied. "Gwydre remains in Chapel Abelle?"

"Aye, I've got three of my finest ships running the coast. There's no breaking out for a sail to Vanguard."

"But your ground army retreated back to Palmaristown, I am told," said Yeslnik.

"Retreated?" Panlamaris started rather sharply, but he calmed himself as Yeslnik stiffened and narrowed his eyes.

The young king was trying to claim the higher and more valiant ground here, Panlamaris realized, though the laird was having a hard time putting himself back in balance to properly respond.

"You left a nominal force, of course," Yeslnik said. "And runners to tell us if our enemies have broken out of their self-imposed prison."

Laird Panlamaris took a deep breath and stood up straight, his gaze darting all about. He didn't much like being spoken to in such a manner, particularly from a snot-faced boy like Yeslnik who had never bloodied his blade on a man able to defend against the strike. He could see his people shifting uncomfortably all about him but noted, too, the many heavily armed guards who had accompanied Yeslnik to the dock and the warships settled all about the long wharf, their decks lined with onlookers-archers all, no doubt.

He looked back to the young king and stared into his eyes. Panlamaris was quite surprised to see a measure of iron there that he had never before known, indeed, that contrasted starkly with everything that had ever been spoken of the foppish nephew of Laird Delaval.

"I've enough there to slow any attempt to break out of the chapel," Panlamaris finally answered. "But it's not something I'm expecting. Behind those walls Father Artolivan and Dame Gwydre stay alive, but if they come out they'll be caught and killed, and they know it. Oh, they can strike hard with their gemstones from the parapets while warriors scramble and try to bust through the heavy gates, but on an open field we'd kill them dead, and they know that, too."

King Yeslnik considered the words for a bit, then nodded, seeming satisfied with the reasoning.

"Good. I intend to keep them in their prison and to make their lives utterly miserable. We'll hold them there while our forces gather and march to the south, and this time Ethelbert will be pushed into the sea. How secure will Gwydre and Artolivan feel when they are fully isolated, the only resistance remaining against me in the whole world?"

"All the holdings?" Prince Milwellis asked.

"All," Yeslnik replied. "They will pledge fealty, or they will be razed to the ground without mercy."

The fiery, red-haired Prince of Palmaristown looked to General Harcourt. Milwellis's expression spoke volumes, a combination of frustration and anger. Hadn't he just marched across the land, battling all the way to the very gates of Ethelbert dos Entel? And after arriving there, only to promptly turn about and flee the field after Yeslnik had similarly retreated? The king took a southerly route while Milwellis had marched back along the coast, destroying every building in his path, to return to his father outside of Chapel Abelle's gates. And now, King Yeslnik was ready to repeat that futile and brutal march to the southeastern corner of Honce?