R. Salvatore - The Bear

"Yeslnik is a fool, but Milwellis is not. Were we to take sail, he would align his warships to protect the mouth of the Masur Delaval and march his army to besiege St. Mere Abelle and urge King Yeslnik to send another army to be rid of Laird Ethelbert. And in that event, how could I expect the courage of Bannagran…?" She paused and sighed.

"Twixt Milwellis and Pryd Town," Bransen replied with a grin and a sly wink. Deliver that," Bannagran bade the captain of the Delaval forces under his command.

The man, tall and lean, looked down at the rolled parchment suspiciously.

"I seek to put an end to this miserable war," the Laird of Pryd explained.

"So does King Yeslnik," replied the captain. "So does Dame Gwydre, I would expect!"

"Do you think my army wishes to march all the way back to Ethelbert dos Entel?"

"If King Yeslnik demands it of us!"

Bannagran snorted and waved the man away, growling, "Deliver it."

But the captain stood resolute. "You must tell me what it is, specifically."

"Why?" Bannagran asked with a knowing grin. "Because you fear that if it is not what your precious King Yeslnik wishes to hear, he will cut off your head?"

The captain tried to remain stoic, but his blink and a slight slump of his shoulders betrayed him.

"And this is the man you would have me die for?" Bannagran asked. "And this is the king you would die for?"

"My laird!"

"Deliver the message," Bannagran said in threatening, even tones. "Or I will chop your head off, stuff the parchment in your mouth, and have your head deliver it for me."

The captain blanched and stormed out.

"See that he takes the leaders of his troublesome legion with him," Bannagran said softly to Master Reandu, who stood beside his throne.

Reandu nodded. "And send the next brigade in to speak with Laird Bannagran?"

Bannagran nodded. "Your monks are on the roads east and north with the same message?" he asked.

"I wrote three copies for you, did I not?" Reandu replied with a smile. "I will fetch the brigade, but they all know your rousing speech by now, of course," Reandu said.

"And most welcome it."

The monk patted Bannagran's strong shoulder and scurried out the door. Bannagran settled back in his throne and rubbed his weary face, stopping short when he heard clapping from the back corner of the room. He turned and stared at the flutter of some drapes, and then the Highwayman strode into plain view.

The few sentries in the room bristled, but Bransen ignored them as he walked over to stand before the Laird of Pryd.

"Do you ever bother with the announcement of your arrival anymore?" the laird asked.

"I wished to view your efforts without influencing them."

"Where is Gwydre?"

"That's what I came to tell you." Bransen took a seat on the hearth bench to the side of the throne. "I have been all through Pryd Town this morning," he explained. "You have welcomed those forces given you by Yeslnik as if they were citizens of your holding. And you have split them among your own ranks and among the homes of the townsfolk."

"You came here to state that which you have witnessed for weeks now?" Bannagran asked. "Was I to field them in hot tents through the summer, while Yeslnik ordered me to march and to stay, to march again and to turn about?"

"None of which you have done."

"In the end, I am where Yeslnik decided he most needs me."

"You need not worry over Laird Ethelbert," Bransen said.

Bannagran tried not to show that he cared.

"Ethelbert is dead," Bransen explained. "His generals believed that the messenger you sent was the culprit."

Now the laird looked truly perplexed.

"Dame Gwydre and I met with them when last we left you," Bransen explained. He laughed at the absurdity of it all, but as soon as he heard a commotion out by the small castle's door, his expression grew deadly serious. "You weaken their loyalty to King Yeslnik and strengthen their love for Bannagran and for Pryd Town."

Bannagran didn't disagree, didn't even blink.

"How many have left for Delaval City over these weeks?" Bransen asked. "A third?"

"Less."

Bransen smiled and brought his hands up to clap his approval quietly. Then he melted away behind the draperies as a group of forty Delaval soldiers was escorted into the room.

Laird Bannagran's sermon sounded as music in the Highwayman's ears. Bannagran didn't quite demand fealty and didn't quite threaten imprisonment, but his point was unmistakable as he assured these warriors-men and women who had come to trust him as their leader-that they were now fully considered as soldiers of the garrison of Pryd Town.

"We are the greatest legion that has taken the field in this war," Bannagran said to them, and though not so long before the proud Delaval warriors might have taken that assessment as a slight, now they were honored by their inclusion in the elite legion.

"I have watched you carefully these months," Bannagran went on. "Through dispiriting marches that lead not to battle but only to further marches! But you did not waver and did not falter. I am blessed to have been given the finest of legions to make my own.

"Do not doubt," he said suddenly, sharply, and he rose from his chair and stabbed his finger at them, "that if I deemed you unworthy, I would have sent you away, as others have gone. There is no room in Pryd's garrison for the weak or the weak of will. But I accept you and am honored to lead you."

Peeking out from behind the drapes, Bransen couldn't contain his admiring smile, for he could see the truth clearly displayed on the faces of every warrior standing before Laird Bannagran.

They would fight for him.

They would die for him.

Not for King Yeslnik, but for Bannagran.

Even as Bannagran's courier departed Pryd Town, a second messenger arrived in Delaval City, this one from Laird Milwellis.

"The riddle of Dame Gwydre's elusiveness is solved," proclaimed Milwellis's man. "The Laird of Palmaristown has discovered her immoral treachery, wasting the souls of spirit-walking monks as she flees, ever flees, in fear of him."

"And what does this mean?" King Yeslnik demanded, trying to hold back his enthusiasm… for surely the courier was nearly jumping out of his boots with excitement.

"The glorious Laird of Palmaristown will have her now, in short order, and the northland will be secured. We have her!" the man declared, his grin nearly taking in his ears. "Now that we know her tactics, we have tricked her into a grave mistake. She believes that we have left our flank exposed and so she runs to our south and west, toward this very city!"

Yeslnik's eyes went wide at that, more out of fear than anticipation.

"She intends to pass Laird Milwellis by in a swift flight and then turn north to try to strike at Palmaristown," the courier quickly clarified, "for she has not the strength of forces to do battle with Laird Milwellis and surely not to threaten the high walls of Delaval City."

Yeslnik tried not to show it, but all in the room saw his clear relief.

"So Laird Milwellis will turn and catch her at last," Yeslnik said, trying to recover his stature. "It has taken him far too long to be rid of the inconvenience that is Gwydre."

"She is fleet, and though we will use her secret sight against her, we cannot fully blind her," the courier replied.

"What does that mean?"

"Catching her will be no easy task for one large force, and Laird Milwellis does not wish to split his legions too thin against a dangerous enemy."

"You claimed that you had her," Yeslnik scolded.

"We do, my king, when you come forth."

Wearing a perplexed expression, Yeslnik had no response.

"Come forth in all your glory," Milwellis's man explained. "A straight march along the course described." He held up a parchment and unrolled it to reveal a map of Honce, complete with representations of the major forces in play: Milwellis, Yeslnik, Gwydre, and Bannagran.