R. Salvatore - The Dame

Kirren Howen nodded and bowed then went fast to the scouts, and not a man or woman on that field thought for a moment that they would not attack Pryd Holding within the next two days.

Y

ou see their eyes?” Lady Olym asked her husband as they were hustled through the streets of Delaval City, toward the main keep, where Laird Delaval lay in state. “They revere you.”

Prince Yeslnik had indeed noticed the many stares-hopeful, pleading, wounded all at once, their intensity nearly stealing his breath and the strength from his legs. Laird Delaval, King Delaval, was dead. Only then did the implications of that reality truly hit Yeslnik, the favored nephew, the Laird of Pryd, the Prince of Delaval’s Honce.

Now they all looked at him. No, not at him, but to him!

He carried in his every step the hope and desperation of a wounded people. His words now, his every word, would hold great importance and power. His every whim would become edict; dozens, scores, hundreds would clamor to fulfill his every wish.

A smile and squeal of joy would not be appropriate, so the prince managed to hold his somber demeanor as he continued on his way, reminding himself that the weight of Delaval’s office, the reality of the war and all the rest, now fell upon his shoulders.

His private giddiness turned to terror when he entered the audience chamber, the hall of state, to see his mentor, Uncle Delaval, laid out upon a stone sarcophagus. The man appeared serene in death, his face chalky but relaxed, arms crossed over his chest.

“I wish for more privacy,” Yeslnik said, and immediately the guards began clearing everyone from the room. Yeslnik didn’t wait but staggered over to the body and fell to his knees beside it, overwhelmed. He had never thought of Delaval in any terms other than the good the man could do his fortune and ascent to power. He couldn’t deny his feelings of guilt now as he knelt by the corpse of the man who had treated him as a son. Never before had the self-absorbed Yeslnik allowed such feelings to invade his consciousness. Never before had he troubled himself with empathy or guilt.

Now it hit him like a shield bash, a great jolt to his sensibilities, a shocking intrusion into the bubble that was his private domain, and it carried with it a rush of emotion the man had never before felt, a great wave of regret, as if his whole life had been a meaningless thing.

He fell over Laird Delaval, weeping. He grabbed his uncle’s hands and squeezed the cold flesh. Delaval’s robe opened enough for him to see the wound, still torn open, for in cleaning the man the dried blood had been washed away.

Howling, Yeslnik slapped his hand over the open gash and then pulled it away with a start and a yelp. He stared at his hand in horror, seeing a cut on his palm, his own blood dripping from the wound.

“It is the sword tip, my laird,” explained one of the attendants, rushing over with a cloth.

Yeslnik’s eyes went wide with shock. “You left it in him?”

The attendant colored. “It is customary to disturb the body as little as possi-”

“You left it in him?” Yeslnik repeated, standing up tall. “The sword that killed him? Take it out! Take it out this moment!”

“My laird,” said Pendigrast, the father of Chapel Delaval.

“Take it out!” Yeslnik yelled at him, pointing at the ugly wound.

Pendigrast glanced around nervously. “This is hardly the time, my-”

“Now!” Yeslnik demanded and stamped his foot. “Now! Now! Now! Take it out of him! Now!”

Pendigrast saw the horrified expressions worn by the people still in the room. The father of Chapel Pellinor moved hastily but awkwardly to the body of his fallen laird. He looked around again, his gaze settling on the still-fuming Yeslnik, and then he focused on the wound, working his fingers to widen the gap in the torn skin. He felt like he was pulling against tough leather, but he managed to wriggle his hand inside enough to grasp the back edge of the broken weapon.

He started to pull, but it would not come free. Sweating now, Father Pendigrast glanced anxiously up at Prince Yeslnik again. The man stood resolute and unblinking.

Father Pendigrast took a deep breath and moved his hand in more forcefully to get a stronger grip on the blade. Understanding now the stubbornness of the unyielding flesh and bone, he pulled with all of his considerable strength.

A sickly, crackling sound accompanied the slide of the blade. Pendigrast grimaced, as did everyone in the room, with more than one in attendance giving a horrified gasp. But the monk didn’t relent. An edge of the jagged blade cut him, but he continued to pull the item forth.

Finally he freed it and moved quickly to use his voluminous sleeve to try to mitigate the mess on Laird Delaval’s chest. He turned at the sound of Yeslnik’s approach, showing the obstinate prince the blade as he did.

The slightly curving, etched, and decorated blade.

Prince Yeslnik’s eyes went wide and he found himself gasping for breath, his eyes locked on the bloody spectacle. Misreading him, Father Pendigrast moved the blade away, or started to, but Yeslnik reached out and grabbed him by the arm, holding it fast. Ignoring his own wound, an action which in and of itself would have astounded anyone who knew the oft-whimpering man, Yeslnik grabbed the blade, taking it from the surprised father’s grasp.

Yeslnik held it up before his astounded eyes. He wiped it fast on Pendigrast’s sleeve then held it up again to study it, his expression dumbfounded.

“What is it, my prince?” Pendigrast asked.

“I… I know this blade,” whispered Yeslnik, twice the victim of the man called the Highwayman.

Castle Pryd loomed above the tree line behind them. They had been pushed back to the very edges of their town, their backs literally to the walls of their outlying farms.

One after another, the defenders of Pryd glanced back at that keep, their last refuge, and it seemed to offer little hope against the ferocity of the advancing men of Ethelbert dos Entel.

And on the southerners came, roaring in anticipation of victory, charging across the snow-covered field with abandon. A few stray arrows and spears reached at them but proved inconsequential and did nothing to slow them.

A group of defenders took a position at the corral rail up on a bluff. “Hold that spot at all costs!” they had been ordered by the field commander, who had then promptly retreated past the farmhouse and across the back field.

Grim-faced, knuckles white as they gripped their weapons, the proud and battle-seasoned warriors of Pryd Town intended to do just that. This would be their glorious stand to turn the tide against the surprising and ferocious charge of Ethelbert.

The first force came against them, a disorganized mob of Ethelbert’s leading line, seemingly oblivious to the defenders crouched behind the bluff. They came on almost casually right to the fence.

Up jumped the defenders, spears stabbing wildly, and behind them came a cheer from the men of Pryd Town. In a day of constant retreat, these warriors had held; the men of Ethelbert scrambled away or fell bleeding to the mud and snow.

Before those retreating few had even crossed the field, however, Ethelbert’s main line came out of the trees across the way. Now with the defenders’ position clearly defined, the attackers gathered in a tight group in the center and sent out lines to flank, left and right.

Without delay, they came on.

The defenders of Pryd Town kept glancing left and right, kept looking for support, for if the invaders passed their position, where might they flee?

Many broke and ran. Those others who stood their ground held for only a few moments as the full weight of Ethelbert’s center came against them, pressing and stabbing and slashing. The attackers dislodged the rails and tossed them aside, then pressed over the bluff, driving the valiant defenders of Pryd under the sheer weight of their numbers. Splashing through mud and blood, they came on.