R. Salvatore - The Bear

"She is trapped," the man went on. "As she passes, likely this very day, Laird Milwellis will turn his force and lengthen his line north and east of her. When you come forth, so, too, will the western route be blocked. To the south lie Pryd Town and Laird Bannagran. Dame Gwydre has nowhere to run."

Before Yeslnik could respond, Olym blurted from behind, "All glory to King Yeslnik!"

He turned to regard his plump wife.

"This is your moment, my beloved champion," she said quietly. "Gwydre will be ensnared before all of Delaval's power, with nowhere to run. She will surrender or be slaughtered to a warrior, and word of your victory will spread throughout the kingdom, and none will dare oppose you!"

"Cannot Milwellis finish this witch?" Yeslnik asked, as much to Olym as to the courier.

Olym rushed from her chair to Yeslnik's side and whispered into his ear. "Beware, my love! If all glory is to Milwellis, will he claim more for Palmaristown and for himself? He is your general. Do not make of him a king!"

Yeslnik blanched at that notion and turned back to the courier. He composed himself quickly and looked past the man to his commanders, standing in lines to either side of the carpet leading from the door to his dais.

"Prepare the legions!" he commanded in regal and powerful tones, and a great cheer went up in the great hall.

The courier's smile widened even more, and he bowed again and again, repeating, "My king!" with each genuflection. Separate holdings once more?" Bransen asked incredulously. "That is your message to King Yeslnik and Milwellis and Ethelbert dos Entel?"

"Fewer and greater holdings," Reandu answered for Bannagran, who sat staring coldly at Bransen.

"Independent kingdoms for Yeslnik, for the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel, for Gwydre, and for Milwellis?" asked Bransen, shaking his head with every word.

"Bound by the common Church of Blessed Abelle," Reandu was quick to add.

"Bound only by gamesmanship and fear of alliance," said Bransen. "And as it sorts, who will march first and against whom? This is no end to war but merely a pause as each king decides which rival he might most easily topple."

"King Yeslnik will never accept it," Master Reandu said.

"Then why would you propose such nonsense?" Bransen started to ask, but he let the end of the question drift away as it began to make sense.

"Because Laird Milwellis is an ambitious man and Laird Ethelbert, or his successor now, a nervous one," Reandu explained.

Bransen paused and let that settle in his thoughts for a long while. "You seek to drive a wedge between Milwellis and Yeslnik," he said. "Do you expect to prompt Milwellis to treason or just to force Yeslnik to see him and you in a new and threatening light?"

"Either would serve," Bannagran answered.

"Then you do not expect your proposal to prove acceptable."

"Of course not."

"But why?" Bransen asked simply. Bannagran stared at him as if the answer should be obvious, and indeed it was, but Bransen wanted to hear it aloud.

"Dame Gwydre has already begun her run," Bransen said. "I doubt I could be by her side in time to turn her away from this course she has chosen, as Milwellis will be quick to cut off her escape."

"You should have informed me of her run before it began," said Bannagran, and it was obvious to Bransen that he, too, was struggling to find a way to sort through this dangerous conflation of contradictory plans.

"We had no time. Milwellis had our advantage revealed, and, were we to delay, he would come to suspect that we knew of his revelation, and he would become suspicious of our every movement." Bransen paused and blew a sigh, trying to find a way to resolve the awkwardly converging plans. "I could turn her south, perhaps, that she could run through Pryd Holding and out to the open south ahead of Milwellis and Yeslnik."

"You believe that Yeslnik will come forth from Delaval City?" Bannagran asked.

"Milwellis knows that he cannot catch us alone. The bait is clear and the hook disguised."

Bannagran looked to Reandu, then stared off into the distance, plotting.

"You quickly travel great distances with Dame Gwydre," Bannagran said to Bransen.

"A trick of gemstone magic and my Jhesta Tu training," said Bransen.

"Can you catch up to Reandu's monk on the north road?"

"Brother Castingay," Reandu added. "He left this morning."

Bransen shrugged. "I believe I can with ease."

"Can you deliver him quickly to Milwellis's camp?" asked Bannagran.

Bransen, his expression curious, did not respond.

"Do so," Bannagran bade him. "And tell Brother Castingay to inform Laird Milwellis that King Yeslnik has received the same offer and that I expect the king will accept, though he will surely recall all his legions from both Milwellis and Bannagran."

Bransen, puzzled but starting to figure it out, looked to Reandu.

"Brother Castingay is traveling openly along the road," the monk explained.

"And when I have done this?" Bransen asked Bannagran. "Would you have me return to you? To Gwydre? To turn her south to Pryd Town?"

"That option always remains," Bannagran replied, and his voice was full of confidence again, and the hints of a smile grew at the edges of his mouth. "But not yet. Return to me in time but first scout well the road to Delaval City. Let us see if Yeslnik comes forth to Milwellis's call. Let us learn if he has the belly for a fight."

"And what will Bannagran do?" Bransen dared ask.

"I will decide where I want to win the war," the Bear of Honce replied. Delaval City had not seen so grand a procession in the memory of anyone alive. Trumpeters lined the main boulevard all the way from the castle to the city's eastern gate. Every rank, every line, marched in perfect harmony, boots stomping the cobblestones in cadence.

A legion of foot soldiers led the way, twenty abreast and three hundred deep. Then came the elite cavalry in shining bronze, horses and riders armored, spear tips gleaming in the morning sun.

The rolling thunder of the chariots followed, their ranks separated by a line of gilded coaches, the king himself in the most decorated one of all. He sat atop its roof on a throne glittering with gold leaf, occasionally tipping his hand in recognition of the thousands who lined the wide street to bid him farewell.

From the high balcony of Castle Delaval, Queen Olym watched them all go, and Yeslnik made sure to acknowledge her, and when he did, any in the crowd who did not cheer wildly were sure to be reminded of their place by the many soldiers who roamed about the gathering, iron poles in hand.

Behind the king and the coaches of his entourage came the rest of the chariots, and behind them three more legions of footmen, their long lines interspersed with an endless stream of wagons full of salted fish and other supplies. By the time the last of Yeslnik's army passed through the city gates, the sun was low in the west and the king was long out of sight of the city, miles along the road.

As soon as he had crossed under the gates, Yeslnik had retreated inside his armored coach, and his personal guards, several score of veteran warriors, stayed close to him in the march and formed an iron ring about him in the encampment that night. His day of final victory was at hand, and he would take no chances.

Despite the many sentries, though, he was truly a lonely man. He missed his wife terribly. She had been his strength these last weeks, prodding him on to greater heights of glory, rewarding him for his courage with memorable nights of lovemaking. This was the first time they had been apart in months, the king realized as he settled in to sleep and found that he could not.

Olym was his only friend. He had sent for her coach; he needed her beside him, lending him courage through this great battle, but she would not arrive until the next day, at the least.