R. Salvatore - The Bear

Bannagran snorted and stirred, and an image of Dame Gwydre in her revealing nightshirt-more revealing than Bransen remembered it by far!-flashed in Bransen's consciousness. More images of the woman flitted about, but Bransen didn't pause to reflect upon them.

He stabbed at Bannagran's dream-Execute the prisoners!

A wall of anger came back at Bransen, accompanied by a jumble of thoughts: that it would outrage the peasants, that such an action would dispirit their own soldiers, that such an edict would push the one ascendant church away, and, finally and most important to Bransen, that it was simply wrong.

The order was an action without honor.

There the Highwayman had his answer, so quickly and so concisely, that Bannagran, the great Bear of Honce, the fearless and ferocious warrior who had cut so many enemies down, was, as Bransen had guessed, possessed of some measure of honor.

A great measure, considering the anger that continued to roil in the man.

Bransen felt drawn deeper into this complicated mind. He thought of Giavno again, briefly, but couldn't help himself as Bannagran's dreams invited him in.

Yeslnik! Bransen's thoughts shouted, for he wanted to capture an unvarnished response, a sense of the man's gut, before the inevitable moment when Bannagran recognized the horrific intrusion and instinctively fought back.

Yeslnik!

Bransen felt the roar of revulsion as intimately as if it were his own, and, for a brief moment, he thought it was aimed at him, at his intrusion. But no, he realized, Bannagran hadn't yet registered the possession for what it was, and so the revulsion was aimed squarely at the would-be King of Honce.

Gwydre! Bransen fired at him, and the images flowed freely, and Bannagran stirred again, even physically thrashed a bit on the cushiony chair. Bransen felt the warmth there… no, not warmth but heat.

He thought of Cadayle; he couldn't help but think of Cadayle!

And then there was Bannagran, thoughts afire, but not about Gwydre, nay, about the horror of this nightmare, of this intrusion.

Bransen retreated and ran away. With every bit of discipline he could muster-with every memory of lost Giavno playing loudly-Bransen resisted the primal urge to remain and to possess, the temptation that had destroyed so many monks, and he ran away. His spirit flew out the window and across the castle courtyard, over the wall, and out to the lake in the east, to the beacon of light that was the soul stone.

He came back to physical consciousness sitting on the rock by the lake, his hands trembling and mouth agape, gasping for breath. Reflexively, he glanced back toward the distant castle, as if he expected Bannagran to be exiting the gates, leading an army to find him and kill him for his violation.

Gradually Bransen calmed and sorted through the tumult of thoughts and images, the revulsion at the order of execution and at Yeslnik himself, and the strength of arousal at the notion of Dame Gwydre!

Bransen didn't return to Chapel Pryd that night but found some sleep right there beside the quiet lake, whose stillness so contrasted with the turbulence that roared in Bransen's spinning thoughts. The next morning, Dame Gwydre found Bannagran sitting on his throne in the main hall of the ground floor of Castle Pryd, his bearded chin in his hands and a look of great consternation on his dark face.

"You will honor the agreement and flag of parlay?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she added, "I will be out to the north and rid of Pryd Town this very morning."

Bannagran lifted his head and looked up at her, appearing as if her words had not at all registered.

Gwydre eyed him curiously. "The flag of parlay?" she asked.

"Go where you will."

"Laird?"

"He's turned me back to the east," Bannagran replied, which only made Gwydre's puzzled expression screw up even more.

After a moment of consideration, she asked, "King Yeslnik?"

"I'm not needed along the Masur Delaval," Bannagran informed her. "And so it is back to Ethelbert dos Entel for my forces. There you have it, lady, get your Vanguardsmen to Laird Ethelbert's side and perhaps you can sting King Yeslnik's smaller force, far from home for both of us."

"Why would you tell me…?" Gwydre's voice trailed off. "You were sent there to vanquish Laird Ethelbert, then recalled, and now, so soon, you are being turned about once more?"

"I lose ten men for every league we march," Bannagran replied. "Provisions have grown scarce from our passage, there and back, and the folk of all the towns between Pryd and Ethelbert dos Entel now flee when they hear word of an army, any army, drawing near-they flee, and quite efficiently, leaving little behind for hungry scavengers."

"You would tell this to King Yeslnik, but he wouldn't hear."

Bannagran snickered helplessly.

"Would General Bannagran advise this march at this time?" Gwydre asked.

"No."

"But Laird Ethelbert is a dangerous foe."

"Be gone, lady," Bannagran bade her.

"You know that this man you follow is not worthy to be king," Gwydre said. Bannagran looked up to glare at her, but she didn't back down. "You know it. Indeed, you know that his reign will be disastrous throughout its length, short may it be."

"Be gone, lady," Bannagran said again, this time with an ominous tone in his voice, one that told Gwydre that she was pushing him too hard.

"Perhaps I will return to you in the coming weeks," she said, and Bannagran looked at her as if she were insane. "When you can better judge my actions against your King Yeslnik. When you see the truth of who I am and what I do and how I do it. Will you honor my flag of parlay again, Laird Bannagran?"

Bannagran snorted, shook his head, and chuckled helplessly. "If you have something to say worth hearing, lady."

Gwydre smiled coyly. "I always do."

She bowed and moved away, out the castle doors and across the courtyard. She arrived at Chapel Pryd, standing before Master Reandu, at the same time as Bransen arrived from the lake.

"The parlay is ended," she told the monk.

"Profitably, I hope."

"We shall see," Gwydre started to say, but Bransen interrupted with a sly, "Yes."

Gwydre and Reandu looked at him curiously. "What do you know?" the Dame of Vanguard asked.

"I know Bannagran," Bransen replied cryptically, and as the others stared, he offered no more.

Finally, with a shrug, Gwydre addressed Reandu. "I may return in time."

"That would be advised," said a still smiling Bransen, and again the other two looked at him curiously.

"We may be gone," Master Reandu replied. "There are rumors afoot that Laird Bannagran has been ordered back to the east to do battle with Laird Ethelbert."

"He has," Gwydre confirmed. "But I doubt he'll go. The events in the heart of Honce will change quickly, and King Yeslnik will find that he needs Laird Bannagran right here in Pryd Town to protect his flank."

"We are all weary of the road and the war," said Reandu.

"Not all," Bransen said with a grin.

"Come," Gwydre bade Bransen. "We have much to do."

They set off to the north, bounding across the fields in great, gemstone-enhanced strides.

"They are eager," Dame Gwydre said to the gathered leaders. She and Bransen had returned to the gulf coast to find Dawson and the Vanguard flotilla moored offshore, unloading a force of nearly five thousand Vanguard warriors. As they had then marched west to a position south of St. Mere Abelle, word had come of Milwellis's new march, back north along the river with a force much larger than the one he had commanded when he had left the field before St. Mere Abelle.

And so the brothers had gone forth spiritually over the next few days to monitor the young laird's progress and to follow the Palmaristown fleet as well, which was sailing hard out of the river, no doubt to blockade and bombard St. Mere Abelle yet again.