R. Salvatore - The Bear

He awoke early but did not immediately go into the city. As he considered his course, he understood that he didn't want to fight Affwin Wi in there. Too many of her allies could be about him, unseen and waiting for the moment to strike. And even if he won, in Ethelbert's city with so dramatic a victory at hand, he might then have to battle with and escape from half the garrison! Even worse, if he defeated Affwin Wi before so many witnesses-perhaps before Ethelbert himself-then how would he subsequently speak with the laird regarding Dame Gwydre? That, he reminded and scolded himself, was no small part of this mission to the southeast.

Soon after midday, he picked his careful way closer to the city walls, moving steadily east, north of the city, until he came to the rocky shoreline, with the docks in sight south of his position. Laird Ethelbert had relaxed his defensive posture, Bransen recognized all along the way. The immediate threat of Bannagran and Yeslnik had been removed, and so the people of Ethelbert dos Entel had returned to the more mundane and necessary duties of life: working the fields outside the city walls and fishing the waters of the Mirianic. Bransen had spotted few armed soldiers along the wall.

He removed his backpack and produced clothing typical of the region: loose-fitting, well-worn, and weathered. His darker skin tones would serve him well here, for many of Laird Ethelbert's subjects could trace a branch of their ancestry to the southern land of Behr.

Using the malachite to cross inlets of water and to navigate sharp outcroppings of stone, he easily managed to stay far from the occasional fisherman along the shore. Bransen slipped around the corner of the wall, rushed a few steps across the water, and then scrambled up the dock posts to join a throng of fishmongers and customers. Without incident, he arrived at the wing of Ethelbert's castle housing Affwin Wi and the remnants of her dwindling band.

And there, Bransen stood frozen by his doubts. Could he beat this woman, this assassin of Behr? And how could he be taking such a risk as this, with Dame Gwydre, her entire cause, depending upon him to perform those tasks as only the Highwayman could? Who else could deliver Gwydre to Pryd Town so secretly and swiftly week after week?

All of those disturbing notions swirled in Bransen's head and heart until even more profound risks bubbled up in his thoughts. What of Cadayle? What of their child? How could he be so selfish as to take this risk, at this delicate time?

"It is necessary," he whispered quietly. "This must be settled, for the sake of Gwydre's kingdom, for Ethelbert's place." He went silent, but his thoughts continued, And for me.

That was the crux of it. Bransen knew that he could not serve Gwydre, serve the cause, to his fullest ability while this sword-his sword-hung over him, casting dark shadows on all that he had to believe was true.

Like a raindrop on a windowpane, Bransen felt as if he was rushing, rushing downward to an inevitable and inevitably futile end. He could believe in Dame Gwydre's Honce, even in Bannagran's Honce if it came to that. He could take joy in the potential future of his life with Cadayle and their child and with Callen and Dawson, no doubt nearby.

But those were merely pieces in the larger scene of the life of Bransen Garibond, the purpose of his existence, the demands of his heritage. He could not be true to himself, to the identity of the Highwayman, and to the promise of his mother and father-both fathers!-if he did not settle this. He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve, but before he could take a step, a voice from on high assailed him.

"You!" Affwin Wi shouted. Bransen looked up just in time to see the woman lift his sword and leap from the balcony a score of feet above him.

On pure reflex, Bransen flipped sidelong into a cartwheel, then a second, coming around just as Affwin Wi landed in a graceful roll. All around them people turned to watch, and up above Bransen heard the cry of Merwal Yahna.

This is not the place! his thoughts screamed at him, but when Affwin Wi came on he met her charge ferociously. He leaped into the air, leg snapping out once and again. He barely dodged the stab of her sword, as she barely ducked away from the double-kick as she tumbled past him.

He landed and spun, lifting a circle kick as he went to keep her at bay, for the nimble woman was back to her feet almost immediately, reversing her momentum to strike at him again.

Bransen turned and dove back to a garden beside the porch of Affwin Wi's castle wing. He rolled across the dirt between two small trees and came to his feet with the larger trunk, the width of a forearm, separating him from the pursuing Affwin Wi.

She slashed his sword across powerfully, felling that tree.

As Bransen had expected.

As the sword sliced cleanly through, he launched a spinning kick against the severed trunk, knocking it aside. As he came around to face Affwin Wi, who was all too eager to charge into him, he thrust forward his hands, left and right, and launched two fistfuls of dirt into her face.

Bransen retreated into the alley. He leaped up against the side of the castle wall, touching with his right foot, then springing away at an angle to climb higher on the perpendicular city wall, where his left foot found a quick brace to spring him back to the right. Back to the left, right again against the castle wall, and then left yet again, put him to the top of the castle wall.

He had meant to go right over, but a sentry to the left caught his eye, the man just drawing his sword. A leap landed Bransen right before him, too close for the man's reactive swing to gain any momentum. Bransen's left hand caught the man by the wrist, while Bransen punched straight out with his right, his open palm thumping hard right into the center of the poor sentry's chest. The man staggered backward, all strength gone as he tried to draw breath, and Bransen deftly stole his sword.

He heard Affwin Wi in fast pursuit and did not doubt that she would scale as easily as he, though the malachite had enhanced his strides, and so he didn't dally any longer. With a nod of apology to the stunned sentry, he leaped from Ethelbert dos Entel to the foothills and then bounded along with great, floating strides. Shouts went up behind him, arrows flew. But he was too swift, his leaps too erratic, and soon he crossed down to the western plains before the city.

Affwin Wi pursued.

He saw that, welcomed it as he continued to the north in full stride, past the gawking farmers, past the shouts of the city guards, and beyond the reach of the occasional spear or arrow. All pursuers fell far behind save Affwin Wi, and even she could not keep up with his exaggerated leaps, except that he wanted her to. Bransen went around to the north of the city, to the higher and more familiar ground, and eventually came to a bluff from which he and Jameston Sequin had once looked down at Ethelbert dos Entel.

This was the spot, this was the time of Bransen's choosing.

He reached into his pouch and produced his gemstones, sorting them, feeling them, teasing their magical energies. He noted Affwin Wi's determined approach and a second figure, similarly dressed, running hard to catch her.

The doubts began to rise, but Bransen dismissed them.

He was no raindrop wearily dying on a pane of glass; he was the Highwayman, the son of Sen Wi and Bran Dynard, the child of Garibond Womak, the student of Jhesta Tu and of the gemstones of Blessed Abelle.

"You were a fool to come," Affwin Wi said as she cautiously approached.

"You tried to murder Cormack and Milkeila, even Laird Bannagran himself," Bransen retorted. "For so long now I have been wondering about that. What gain, after all, Laird Ethelbert might find in killing two emissaries from Dame Gwydre."