R. Salvatore - The Bear

A long pause ensued, with Milwellis staring at Yeslnik, not blinking at all. More than once did King Yeslnik avert his eyes, and more than once did he bring his fingers to his lips, tapping nervously.

"I gave Laird Bannagran two legions," Yeslnik said at length. "To you I give three-four! Four of my eight remaining, to hunt down Dame Gwydre and be done with her and to tear Chapel Abelle to its foundation so that Father De Guilbe might rebuild it in my image."

Despite his impassive facade, Laird Milwellis could not help but gulp at that surprising and most welcomed proclamation. Four legions! Twenty thousand soldiers to join his Palmaristown thousands! He would sweep the land with such a force, overwhelming any and all who came before him.

Even Chapel Abelle. When he had made the demand to destroy the place to Yeslnik, it was more symbolic than realistic-could any army tear down the fortress of Chapel Abelle?

Milwellis didn't know, but with more than twenty-five thousand warriors at his command, suddenly it seemed quite possible.

"Finish the powries, if any remain," King Yeslnik commanded him. "Then win the war, however you need do it. Kill the witch Gwydre. March to Vanguard if you must to finish her! When you see the moment of triumph before us, go to aid Laird Bannagran and finish the dog Ethelbert. Crush Chapel Abelle! These are the charges I give to you, General and Laird Milwellis. You are my most trusted commander now. You have proven your worth against the powries and the loyalty of your city in the great cost it has endured for the sake of my kingdom. While Bannagran tarries, Milwellis shines as brightly as the sun. I put in your charge the garrison of Delaval City, the mightiest army the world has ever known. Win the war, Laird Milwellis, and your reward will be as great as anything you can imagine."

Beside Milwellis, General Harcourt nearly swooned. He stared at his young laird, this man who had so expertly manipulated King Yeslnik to the gain of Palmaristown, with open admiration. He knew at that moment that the time of training Milwellis had ended, that Prince Milwellis had truly become Laird Milwellis, and, he suspected, that Laird Milwellis would outshine even Laird Panlamaris.

"But leave no enemies a clear march to Delaval City," Yeslnik added.

Harcourt did well to hold his chuckle at that typical Yeslnik reaction. The man still had more than twenty thousand warriors surrounding him, behind walls as tall as those of Chapel Abelle itself. And yet, with the foppish Yeslnik, for all his legions and visions of total conquest, ever there remained the fear.

No matter, Harcourt thought and Milwellis agreed, indicating so with a smirk to Harcourt. To both men, it seemed clear that Palmaristown's greatest glories lay right before them.

The Highwayman and Dame Gwydre entered Pryd Town late the next morning, without fanfare, without much recognition. Bransen even took care to disguise his revealing clothing for the sake of Dame Gwydre, nervously walking at his side.

He noted that Gwydre, too, had retreated to a disguise (though, of course, none in these parts knew her at all, anyway), putting up the hood of her traveling cloak so far forward that it covered not only her hair, but much of her profile, as well.

How could she not be nervous? Bransen asked himself as they crossed the northern fields, through an endless sea of tents.

"How many?" Gwydre asked quietly from under the hood. "Pryd is more powerful than I had imagined."

"Most are from Delaval," Bransen explained. "I learned that Yeslnik granted Bannagran a sizable force so that he could rid the world of Laird Ethelbert."

"So many," Gwydre said, her voice full of trepidation.

Bransen took her hand and she squeezed his tightly.

"If every man and woman of Vanguard took up arms, I could not hope to lead them to victory against such a force as this," Gwydre said. "So many! I could not imagine…"

"Yeslnik can muster several times this force," Bransen heard himself reply, and when Gwydre squeezed his hand tighter, he felt foolish, indeed, for divulging that disturbing truth.

"We cannot win," Gwydre whispered.

"We have to win," Bransen whispered back. He stopped walking and looked at Gwydre, drawing her gaze to his own. Silently, they stared and nodded, "tying iron to their bones" as the old saying went.

"Surely this force could sweep Laird Ethelbert away," Gwydre remarked when they began walking again.

"The city is well defended, and by desperate men with their backs to the sea. Bannagran would defeat him, but it would not be without great cost to this army, large as it is. Of course, if we have our way, Bannagran will never again march to the Mirianic."

"Why did they turn? Why are they are back here in central Honce?"

"Recalled because of the powrie fight, so revealed Brother Giavno. Resupplying and preparing to march again, but to the west and the river, not east."

"You believe this to be a good thing for our cause? The coming of the powries, I mean."

Bransen had no answer for her, but he doubted that Bannagran was thrilled at being pulled back from a campaign. They would know soon enough, he reminded himself as they crossed onto the main road of the town proper, Castle Pryd looming before them.

"Here, but I thought you had run off from us, Highwayman," said one of the four sentries at the front gate, which was open but imposing nonetheless. "Not that many wanted you along for the march."

"Hardly that," Bransen lied. "There were more important matters to attend."

"So said Laird Bannagran?"

"There was no time to tell him," said Bransen. "I return now with important information. Announce me, I beg, and send a courier to Master Reandu."

The man looked at him suspiciously for a few heartbeats, but then nodded to his companions and disappeared inside. Just a few moments later, Bransen found himself entering the audience hall of the Laird of Pryd yet again.

Bannagran smirked and shook his head at the sight of him. "You are like the wart I keep cutting from my toe," he said.

"Forgive my absence," Bransen said.

"Forgive? Do you think I was angry at hearing that you had fled the lands once more?" He snorted derisively. "I thought that I could put away my knife and that my toe would know relief, and this time, perchance, forevermore."

Bransen caught Gwydre's concerned look beside him and so he tossed her a reassuring wink.

"And who is this that you have brought? One of the Duwornay women?"

Gwydre's expression remained concerned, but Bransen motioned to her, and with his reassuring nod, she pulled back her hood.

Bransen turned to Bannagran, sitting halfway across the room, to gauge his reaction, and, indeed, the man started, leaning back with his eyes wide, then coming forward, certainly interested.

"Callen Duwornay?" he asked and started to rise.

"A forward scout," Bransen corrected, "come to accept Laird Bannagran's agreement and word that he will honor a flag of parlay."

"Parlay? What are you babbling about, Stork?"

Bransen took the insult in stride. "I have returned ahead of the most important meeting Laird Bannagran might ever know."

"Ethelbert again?"

"Nay," Bransen replied, and he painted a wry smile on his face to heighten the laird's intrigue.

"Father Artolivan, then," Bannagran reasoned, and if he was at all impressed with that possibility, he didn't show it. "I would have thought him too old-"

"Father Artolivan is dead," Dame Gwydre interrupted.

That silenced the man. He came forward a step, looking Gwydre up and down, clear intrigue on his dark face.

"Will you offer your word of honor?" Bransen asked.

Bannagran eyed him suspiciously but gave a slight nod.