R. Salvatore - The Bear

Every one of those spirit-walking monks had returned to his body shaken by the sight; several legions marched with purpose and good cheer, singing songs with every stride.

"I can get the boats loaded and back to sea," Dawson offered. "Might that we sail our boys all the way to Ethelbert's city but ahead o' them Palmaristown ships at any rate."

"We can fight them at sea," one of the captains said, and others agreed. These were the former leaders of the isolated Vanguard towns and really seemed more akin to Alpinadoran tribal chieftains of their respective followers than the lairds of Honce proper.

"We got only three ships that can fight one of theirs," another of the leaders chimed in. "And we've never sailed a ship that big into a battle. I'll fight 'em on land, not to doubt, and my boys will take down two, nay three, for every one I lose. But not at sea, Dawson. Not even for yourself, and we're all knowing that there's not e'er been a better sailor catching the following seas than Dawson McKeege."

Dame Gwydre looked to Dawson to respond.

"We cannot fight them at sea," Dawson admitted. "Might be that the powries'll hit them again, and so be it."

"Their warships concern me not at all, other than their role in delivering warriors to land," Gwydre concurred.

"So we brothers watch them," Brother Pinower offered, and Dame Gwydre nodded.

"Our more immediate concern is Laird Milwellis and his great force," Gwydre told them.

"Their front ranks have already turned from the river," said Brother Pinower.

"Toward St. Mere Abelle, no doubt," Gwydre replied

"It will take more than he has at his command to break the walls of St. Mere Abelle," Pinower asserted.

Bransen laughed at that, and all eyes settled on him.

"We won't go back in there," he said. "Not if we hope to win. Not if we hope to gain important allies in our cause. With you and your spying brethren supporting us," he said to Pinower, "and a cause we know to be just, we can move about much more easily than Milwellis's cumbersome force."

"And with much less attrition," Gwydre agreed. She shared a look with Bransen that spoke of confidence to those gathered about them, as if they had foreseen this march and now were prepared for it, even welcomed it.

"Particularly if we aid in that attrition," said the Highwayman, and he pulled his mask over his eyes as he finished. "I return after sunset."

"I will keep my candles burning," Dame Gwydre promised.

With a tap of his hand to his forehead, Bransen turned, fell into the magical energy of the magical hematite, and bounded away like a fleeing deer.

"Mobility," Dame Gwydre remarked quietly, and all around her leaned in as she elaborated. "Mobility and information. We will know our enemy's movements, but he will not know ours. We can catch him as we please, but he cannot catch us." She paused and let her gaze drift about the gathering.

"That is why we will win." They are stretching their line, Bransen mused with a knowing smile. The spirit-walking monks had reported as much. By all reports of the commoners, the young laird's march to the river and all the way to Delaval City had been brilliantly executed. He had carved the riverbank like a grid, methodically and swiftly, and cleared each segment. The fleet sailing the river had coordinated all; the powries had been killed and chased away in short order.

But the Book of Jhest had taught Bransen that confidence could be a leader's important ally or his worst failing. In the days since his turn to the east, Laird Milwellis had allowed the growing excitement to get the best of his formation. Apparently expecting no enemies lying in wait, he had erred in allowing those front ranks to get out too far ahead of the main body of his vast army-an army that stretched for miles along the flat stones of the road. All of Milwellis's forward scouts had been spotted by the spirit walkers and caught by the Highwayman. The vast army was running blind into the ambush.

Lying on his belly at the top of a small hill north of the road, Bransen and a score of gemstone-wielding monks watched those front ranks march past. Down the hill behind Bransen, a hundred handpicked warriors lay in wait among the tall grasses, the strongest and most ferocious of the Vanguardsmen and some of the prisoners taken from the lines of Laird Ethelbert, men seething with hatred at the carnage this man, Milwellis, had inflicted upon their homes and their brethren.

The monk lying beside Bransen stirred, but Bransen motioned him to hold still and directed his gaze to the east, where a small cluster of farmhouses lay quiet amidst the rolling fields.

Gwydre's army was there, ready for a fight.

"Alone? Are you sure?" the monk beside Bransen whispered to him, and it was not the first time the man had expressed his concern.

Bransen glanced just west of his position, to the thin line of trees reaching down to the road and resuming again not far on the other side. He nodded and smiled, knowing that they had picked their spot very well. "Fast and hard and with a show of explosions," he whispered in reply. The monk nodded and both turned their heads back to the east to see the front ranks of the marching soldiers nearing the farms.

Another smile from Bransen and a definitive nod sent the monk into motion. On his signaling wave, the warriors began their quiet ascent up the backside of the hill. Bransen shifted to the west, inching toward the trees.

Gemstones in hand, the monks led the charge. A great shout went up from the hill, and from on high came the brothers and the warriors, banging their weapons and screaming with every stride.

Milwellis's soldiers on the road began to scramble into position; horns blew a haphazard warning song. The first bolts of lightning reached down to the road, heightening the confusion more than inflicting any real damage. Milwellis's soldiers farther to the east predictably turned and then predictably turned again at the sound of the charge of Gwydre's army.

Bransen watched it all unfolding, measuring the progress and reminding himself to be patient. His timing was the most critical here. He rolled the two gemstones, serpentine and ruby, around in his right palm and keenly felt the connection to the malachite held in his left hand.

Milwellis's forces began to regroup quickly, a testament to the seasoned fighting force. All except for those on the road directly before the charge of the monks and the handpicked warriors, just below Bransen, just to the east of the tree break. More warriors came in, east and west, to try to bolster the battered area.

Bransen tapped his closed fists to his forehead. By the time he brought them down, he was glowing softly, a blue-white hue. He leaped away, a great, malachite-enhanced bound, landing right before the trees nearly a third of the way to the road. As he touched down, he brought forth the power of the ruby, a great, fiery blast that flew out from him in all directions, setting ablaze branches and grasses.

He bounded again, and the fires exploded as he landed. He lifted off in his third great leap and saw Milwellis's warriors on the road before him, screaming in terror and scrambling for their lives. Some desperately threw spears as they fled, some drew their blades and set their feet.

This time Bransen enacted the ruby's power as he descended, just out of reach of the swordsmen, blowing a fiery gap in Milwellis's marching line. He touched down lightly, trying to ignore the screams of men aflame, and leaped away again to the south, extending the firebreak to the other side of the road.

Three jumping strides later, far from the road and the enemies, he turned back. His smile now was grim, but he was indeed smiling, for the influx of reinforcements had been halted and Gwydre's army charged in from the east, overwhelming all before them.