R. Salvatore - The Bear

Bransen dismissed his surprise, even admiration, at the graceful and balanced retreat, and went in fast pursuit. He lowered his shoulder and barreled into the chair, sending it skidding and tumbling at the assassin, who promptly leaped and somersaulted again, tucking tight in a forward roll that landed him right back in place, the chair now behind him and his opponent rushing in.

Both men struck with fury and amazing speed, hands and feet becoming a blur of motion, slapping and snapping against each other with great force. Sobered by the commotion and the shock, Bannagran circled the combatants. He tried to follow their movements but found himself standing with his mouth agape at the beauty and power and ferociousness of the dance. He heard the slaps more than he actually saw them.

Down went the Highwayman in a spinning descent, his leg stabbing out at the Behr warrior's knee. Wahloon barely turned his leg enough so that the kick didn't shatter that joint. As if he hadn't even been hit, the warrior came forward over Bransen as the Highwayman tried to rise, his hands jabbing down hard like the talons of a hawk, stabbing and grabbing.

Bannagran stumbled to the side, circling back in front of the hearth and hoping to get around to the door. He heard shouting and knew his guards were on their way.

He knew, too, that the Highwayman had just saved his life. Bransen's hands worked in tight, circular patterns above and before him as he stood back up, deflecting the many strikes of Wahloon. The assassin's continuous straightforward angling surprised him, for surely the man could have arced a hook or two around his hands to score a painful hit. But Wahloon remained strangely focused, every strike going for Bransen's forehead.

Every strike or every grab?

That notion hit Bransen hard as he finally came up even, the two resuming their furious exchange. The assassin kept going for his forehead. The assassin was trying to strip away Bransen's bandanna and gemstone!

Wahloon leaped and somersaulted again, twisting about as Bransen turned sidelong to the left and went over the other way, the two crossing paths upside down in midair, both punching out as they did. As soon as he landed, Bransen pivoted around backward, launching a circle kick.

So did Wahloon, the two kicking feet slamming together. Bransen hopped off his right foot and rotated his hips, sending that foot out behind him as he landed on his left, and when Wahloon did likewise, the two hooked their right legs at the ankles. Both tugged and they came together hard, clawing and striking every inch of the way. And again, Wahloon went for Bransen's bandanna.

Bransen let him. The Highwayman fell into himself, into his ki-chi-kree, and mentally separated himself from the soul stone even as Wahloon's grasping hand ripped the bandanna and stone away. Bransen staggered, seeming out of control, and Wahloon struck, a leaping circle kick that would have smashed the side of Bransen's head with enough force to snap his neck.

Except that in the instant it took Wahloon to leap and spin, the Highwayman wasn't there. Bransen had dropped straight down into a crouch, so low that his butt brushed the ground. He could feel his line of life energy twitching-it wanted to break apart-but he held it firm and came up and forward with tremendous power and speed, punching out with a strong right, burying his fist into the descending Wahloon's groin. The assassin jerked out and back and somehow, with great effort and discipline, managed to land standing.

But that was a mistake, for Bransen continued to drive upward, and when he was standing, he threw himself into the air, flipping over and double-kicking out as he came around. He hit Wahloon with both feet, soles crashing in against the man's shoulders and throwing him backward into the side of Bannagran's chair.

Even worse for the dazed assassin, he landed right before Laird Bannagran, who had reached into the hearth and produced a smoking log from the low-burning fire.

Bannagran met the falling assassin with a heavy swing, the log cracking Wahloon's skull, snapping his neck, and stopping cold his momentum. He swung about weirdly, twisting and collapsing to the floor in an awkward heap. And there he lay very still.

Bannagran looked up at Bransen, looked past Bransen to the guards bursting in the door. He held up his hand to keep them at bay as they leveled their spears at the Highwayman's back.

"I suppose you expect my gratitude," Bannagran said to Bransen.

Out of breath, hurting in many places, and trying hard to keep his line of life energy from scattering, Bransen could only shrug before he sank down to one knee.

"Get this fool out of my sight," Bannagran instructed the guards, who lifted their spears and rushed to flank Bransen, left and right. "Not that fool," Bannagran scolded, and he kicked the dead assassin in the side of the head. "This one!"

They rushed over and began dragging Wahloon's body away, and Bannagran tossed the log, its bark red with blood and bits of brain matter, back into the hearth. The laird shook his head as Bransen managed to pull himself back to his feet. He glanced to the side and noted Bransen's bandanna, the gray stone sitting on the floor nearby. Never taking his eyes off the dangerous Highwayman, Bannagran walked over and picked up the stone and cloth.

Bransen reached out for them from across the way, but Bannagran scoffed and held them close.

"He… h… he would have killed you," Bransen reminded, his voice unsteady, Stork-like.

"I've saved a thousand men, and a hundred have saved me," Bannagran replied. "That is the way of war. You betrayed Ethelbert's assassin because it benefitted you; do not pretend any friendship or kinship to me as the cause."

Bransen closed his eyes and tried to regain his steadiness.

"Do you have anything to say before I have my guards drag you away? Or should I just throw you back out the window and be done with you?"

"Did you deserve my efforts here?" Bransen answered with a question of his own. "Is the life of the Laird of Pryd worth fighting for?"

"What idiocy?"

"Is the life of the man who murdered my father worth my time or effort?" Bransen asked. He opened his eyes and glared at Bannagran. "Are you the beast you so stubbornly insist that you are, Bannagran of Pryd?"

"Your father? Garibond Womak?" Bannagran snickered. "Are we back to that, Highwayman?" He snorted with clear derision and walked over to retrieve his great axe, which rested against the side of the hearth. "Too long have I suffered your whimpers. Your father, my friend Prydae-it would seem that we have little to say, then. So come on and be done with it. I will be rid of you at long last, or I will-"

"Be dead," Bransen finished for him. "And that does not strike fear into the heart of Bannagran the brave, does it?"

"We're all dying, fool."

"Aye, but your lack of fear is not because of Bannagran the brave. It took me a long time to understand that about you."

"Back to idiocy, I see," Bannagran said, and he maneuvered his chair back into place, which put it between himself and Bransen.

"You are not afraid of dying because you are a coward," Bransen accused.

"Do tell," the laird replied, amused.

"I know you, Bannagran, because I know myself. You look at me and you stare into a mirror."

Bannagran scoffed even louder.

"Cowards, both," Bransen insisted. "Neither of us has ever found the courage to lead. We are servants because we are afraid."

"I am the Laird of Pryd. I thought you knew that."

"You are the servant of Yeslnik, as you were the servant of Laird Prydae and of Laird Pryd before him. You can lead armies, but you are no leader."

"You babble."

"And I can outfight almost any man in Honce," Bransen went on. "But like Bannagran, when I serve no laird or dame, I serve only myself. The Highwayman of Pryd Town held no responsibility for the folk he claimed to champion. In truth…" He paused, lowered his gaze, and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. When he looked back up, he was somewhat surprised to find a look of intrigue on Bannagran's face. Perhaps it was the liquor, perhaps the rescue, but whatever the reason, Bransen knew that he could not let this slim opportunity pass. "In truth, I cared nothing for the injustices served upon them by your friend, Laird Prydae. How many maidens did he drag to his bedroom? And not one did the Highwayman rescue other than Cadayle, my love. Even when I stole food and money and gave it back to the folk of Pryd, I did so only to anger Laird Pryd."