R. Salvatore - The Bear

One boat had rushed ahead to warn the city, and so thousands of people were out and about the hills overlooking the docks, staring down.

"Uncertain and afraid," said Cormack. Tall and long-legged with sinewy muscles, the former monk gave the impression that he was a much younger man, almost boyish, with a disarming smile and bright green eyes, a mop of shaggy blond hair on his head, and a scraggly beard such as a teenager might try to grow. Despite having left the Order of Abelle, Cormack still wore the signature brown robes, not so unusual a sight in Honce, but atop his head he sported a distinctive red beret: the bloody cap of a powrie. And so to all who did not know him Cormack surely seemed a walking contradiction-young and innocent, a bearded child as tall as a giant, wearing the robes of a beneficent order beneath a murderer's prized beret.

"Aye, all word's that they been pushed back inside their walls with nothing but the sea behind them," said Dawson McKeege, the old, grizzled sea dog. Lady Dreamer had put in to port only once since departing the great chapel of St. Mere Abelle, at a small town's single wharf along the outer reaches of the Mantis Arm, to gather supplies and catch up on the news of the day. News that had not shone favorably on the cause of Laird Ethelbert in his struggle against the allies of Delaval City. "Good that they're scared, I'm thinking, given what we're asking. If they thought their side winning, would they even have let us in to port? Nay, they'd've put us into the dark cold far up the coast."

He glanced away from the dock to look directly at Cormack, who directed his gaze to Cormack's wife, Milkeila, and the look of utter amazement on her wide, round face. Following her eyes to the city of Ethelbert dos Entel, it was not hard to fathom the source of her astonishment, given her background as a shaman among the tribes of rugged Alpinador. Ethelbert dos Entel was much larger than any city Milkeila had ever seen. More than that, the strange southern architecture-domes and slender towers and multistorey structures of angled walls and overhanging eaves-were as impressive in their own manner as the massive cliff and walls of St. Mere Abelle.

The woman shook her head in wonder, beaded black braids bouncing wildly about, framing her excited smile. Even Cormack, who had lived all of his youth in Honce proper and had heard many stories of this city and had even seen murals depicting it, couldn't help but giggle a bit at the exotic wonder of Ethelbert dos Entel.

Lady Dreamer slid into the slip readied for her, and Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila went to the top of the gangplank while the crew and dockhands tied her in place. The three exchanged worried glances as they simultaneously spied archers at the ready lining the dock. Through them stepped a greeting procession comprised of monks amidst a swarm of warriors.

Dawson called down to them in his most charming voice. "We come from Chapel Abelle with word from Father Artolivan and Dame Gwydre of Vanguard Holding."

"St. Mere Abelle, you mean," answered the leading monk of the greeting party. "And glad I am to hear that!"

"You know?" Cormack blurted before Dawson could reply.

"Good word travels fast across the land, particularly when brothers are fleeing from the brutality of Laird Yeslnik and his armies!" answered the monk.

Cormack, Dawson, and Milkeila all breathed sighs of relief.

"Come along, and welcome!" the monk on the docks said. "I am Father Destros of Chapel Entel, sent to escort you to Laird Ethelbert."

"You mean, now that you're thinking you don't have to murder us," Dawson replied with a laugh and a glance around at the rows and rows of archers, bows still leveled Lady Dreamer's way.

Destros's reply was to flash a disarming smile. Dawson led his two companions down to the docks.

"You are a long way from Vanguard," Father Destros said as the procession made its way to the streets and open markets of the remarkable city. It was no secret across Honce that Laird Ethelbert was quite fond of Behr, the desert kingdom to the south around the towering Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, upon whose northern foothills Ethelbert dos Entel had been built, and upon whose southern foothills lay the great Behr city of Jacintha.

"Dame Gwydre's no fool," Dawson replied. "She's seeing Honce tearing itself apart. Don't doubt that your troubles are to become Vanguard's troubles in short order."

"My Laird Ethelbert has no such designs upon the northern wilderness of Vanguard, I assure you."

"Word has it that your Laird Ethelbert isn't the one winning."

That remark jolted Destros to a halt, and all about them, soldiers and monks alike, gasped.

"I didn't come here for pretty words and pretend thoughts," Dawson said. "That might crinkle your nose a bit, but you'll be glad to see Lady Dreamer soon enough, I promise."

"Quite the diplomat," Cormack whispered to Dawson amidst the uncomfortable silence.

Dawson just chortled and gave a crooked-toothed grin.

Laird Ethelbert's palace was not a grand affair compared to the splendors of St. Mere Abelle, but it was quite beautiful and, like the city around it, filled with the colorful and exotic goods of the strange kingdom to the south. Painted screens and fans gave a myriad of angles to every room. The polished stones of the hallways prompted shiny and intricate designs of swirling colors and even a few small distinctive images that seemed like pieces of larger murals or teasing sentence fragments on an ancient and much-damaged parchment. The effect proved intoxicating even to grumpy Dawson.

A long time passed before Cormack and the others realized that Father Destros had slowed his pace considerably to let them bask in the beauty of Castle Ethelbert. He'd led them in a roundabout path to view it all, they realized, when at last they came into the wide audience hall of the laird.

There was no carpet leading to the marble throne and the old man seated upon it, but the patterns on the floor tiles showed them a clear enough path. A pair of delicate fountains stood to either side of that walkway, two-tiered and with graceful fish statues spitting water into the lower bowl and complementing beautifully the flow and grace of the mosaic tiles and the many screens and tapestries along the walls. Even the guards-dressed in red and blue and with wide flowing sashes as belts and sporting tassels along the length of their tall pole arms-seemed more decorative than utilitarian, though there was no doubting the strength of those iron hooks and axe heads they held fast!

Cormack, Dawson, and Milkeila took it all in, basking in the designs, but the former monk's gaze soon enough locked on a most curious figure, a small woman, her black hair and brown skin revealing her to be from Behr. She was dressed in black silks and carrying a sword that Cormack was certain he recognized. She stood to the right of the dais that held Ethelbert's throne, beside a man of similar heritage who was similarly dressed. Cormack instinctively understood the danger of these two, much more pronounced than the power of the laird's military advisors standing across the throne from them. It was hard to discern the musculature of the man, who was not of extraordinary height or girth, but Cormack knew that his muscles were tightly wound, like a coiled spring. His head was shaven, his eyebrows thick and black, and his dark eyes did not ever seem to blink, as if the lids dared not interrupt his intense stare.

"My laird, I present Dawson McKeege of Vanguard, emissary of Dame Gwydre," Father Destros said after bowing to Ethelbert. "And his companions, Cormack of…"

He paused and glanced back at Cormack and silently mouthed, "St. Mere Abelle?" to which the monk smiled and nodded.

"Of St. Mere Abelle, the Blessed Chapel," Destros continued. "And his wife, Milkeila of Alpinador. A most varied and unusual crew has come to our docks!"