R. Salvatore - The Bear

She was his only friend. That unsettling thought followed him to his bed. He recalled his uncle's court; Laird Delaval had surrounded himself with trusted and loyal warriors, with men and women he called his friends. Not so for Yeslnik. His two primary generals, Milwellis and Bannagran, were lairds of their respective holdings. Should he bring them to Delaval City? Garrison Commander Bannagran, perhaps?

No, rather Milwellis, he decided, for Bannagran was too old and surly to share in the benefits Yeslnik might know as uncontested King of Honce. For all of his love for Olym, the thought of the pleasures of many pretty young ladies was not unpleasant. Yes, when this business with Dame Gwydre was finished, he would invite Milwellis to Delaval City as his chief advisor, as his garrison commander, and as his friend.

He wanted a friend… many friends, he decided. He would gather a court of nobles, young and randy, and together they would enjoy the pleasures of a bevy of young and pretty ladies.

An image of a scowling Olym rattled his senses as he lay in his bed.

But King Yeslnik shook that away. He was the King of Honce. His every desire would be met and by whomever he chose. Olym would have to accept that.

He was the King of Honce.

But he was a lonely man. That was most amazing, Highwayman!" Brother Castingay said to Bransen when they ended their bounding run, the vast encampment of Laird Milwellis in clear sight in the valley below. "Would that Master Reandu had afforded me a malachite, that I might attempt such a prance back to Pryd Town when my duties here are finished!"

"We would not have Milwellis and Father De Guilbe learning of this property of the gemstone," Bransen said. He thought, but didn't add, that Castingay would do well to never attempt such a prance on his own. Only Bransen's unique combination of qualities and training afforded him such freedom. Any other monk running as he did, with those great and high leaps with every stride, would surely shatter his ankle upon landing or smash into a tree or a thick wall to a crashing demise.

"You know your duty here?" Bransen asked.

Brother Castingay held up the rolled parchment, sealed in wax with the crest of Pryd. "And King Yeslnik will accept the proposal of Laird Bannagran," he said.

Bransen nodded, though he still wasn't quite certain of Bannagran's intent here or of how it might all play out.

"Am I to remain with Laird Milwellis or return to Pryd?" Castingay asked.

Bransen considered the likely road ahead for Milwellis. "Be away from this camp as soon as you are able," he replied. "The next week will be filled with battle and death. Follow the stench of rotting bodies if you choose to join in or find a small village nearby to house you through the chaos. But do not stay with Milwellis unless your heart is for Father De Guilbe and unless you have the call to do battle with your own brethren of Pryd."

"Do you believe that Laird Milwellis will war with Laird Bannagran?" Castingay asked breathlessly.

Bransen just smiled and shrugged. He wasn't sure, but he hoped that it would come to that. Indeed. He left the man with a clear road to Milwellis's lines and bounded away to the southwest, traveling many miles before settling beneath the low-hanging branches of a wide pine for a good night's rest… in sight of a second vast army, the garrison of Delaval City.

Still, and to his surprise, Bransen did sleep soundly. All the parts of Honce were moving, he knew, converging to the great battle of his age. But, strangely, he was not agitated or afraid. He thought of the promise of Gwydre and of his beloved Cadayle and of their coming child. He had, indeed, found a road worth walking… a bloody and difficult one, to be sure, but one that was right and just. This was Gwydre's promise to him.

That night, Bransen affirmed his belief in the future-his own and that of the beauteous land he called his home.

If he could only survive the battle…

King Yeslnik sat atop his coach, tapping his fingers on the oaken arms of his gilded throne. On the ground before him stood Captain Descarde of the Seventh Legion, one of the battle groups Yeslnik had granted to Bannagran. Beside the king stood a nobleman of his court, an advisor who had read the note from Laird Bannagran, and atop the nearby wagon to Yeslnik's right sat Queen Olym, arrived at last from the city.

"It is good that you have come forth," Descarde said, stumbling over every word as he tried to unsaddle himself from the burden of having delivered the obviously unwelcome proposal. "I might return with all haste to Laird Banna…" His voice trailed off as Yeslnik began talking to Olym, ignoring him fully.

"Did you hear that, my queen?" the king asked. "An end to the war, so says Bannagran, this man you think so grand a champion."

Around him, unnoticed by Yeslnik, several men shifted nervously, for there could be no question of the impressive nature of the Laird of Pryd, whose exploits in the war were legendary throughout the ranks of Delaval's garrison.

"We simply stop! How marvelous!" Yeslnik chided. "And since my victory is at hand, assuredly, now is the time for me to divide my kingdom among several smaller kingdoms. Oh, my, but how wonderful, with Bannagran getting his own!"

The advisor at Yeslnik's side strained to laugh at the mocking tones.

"Alas, but he has seen too much of the war," Queen Olym replied. "I have heard of such things, where mighty warriors become cowardly. It is a great loss, but no matter, for our kingdom is at hand. Indeed, my husband, perhaps it is better that a once-mighty laird so nearby to Delaval City has lost his loins for the fight."

King Yeslnik chuckled and nodded, fixing his stare back on Captain Descarde.

"You would have me return to Laird Bannagran and tell him that his offer is refused?" the man asked.

"Oh, more than that," Yeslnik said dramatically. "I would have you go back to Pryd-take extra horses and ride through the nights!-and tell my subject of the situation. Dame Gwydre and her pitiful forces flee straight at my army, trapped north and west by the great General Milwellis and with Bannagran and the thousands I gave to him blocking her way to the south. Tell him to come forth and join in Gwydre's slaughter, or I will remove him from the seat of Pryd in disgrace. Perhaps he can yet salvage a place among my generals, perhaps I'll even allow him to join in the rout of Laird Ethelbert, but I'll not tolerate his hesitance. Not now."

The captain bowed.

"Go!" King Yeslnik, so full of pride and power and glory, yelled at him.

"Bannagran needs to be leashed and lashed," Yeslnik remarked to his queen.

Olym tittered and arched her eyebrows at that, and Yeslnik scowled at her, fully understanding where her lewd mind had run off to.

An interesting proposal," Harcourt said to Milwellis.

Milwellis didn't immediately respond, considering more carefully the implications of Bannagran's curious and unexpected ploy. Surely Yeslnik would be outraged… particularly at this moment, with one of his prime enemies about to be utterly destroyed.

Of course, Bannagran likely did not know that. "We must move more quickly," he instructed Harcourt. "I would catch and destroy Gwydre even before she encounters the Delaval garrison, if that is possible."

Harcourt looked at him curiously, obviously expecting more.

"And since Bannagran will not likely come forth…" Milwellis said.

"All glory to Palmaristown," Harcourt finished, now nodding.

"And who better to absorb the Holding of Vanguard than Milwellis of Palmaristown?" the laird asked. "With our ships dominating the gulf and securing the trade routes."

"Bannagran's hesitance plays for us," Harcourt agreed. "Might he even evoke war between Delaval City and Pryd Town?"