R. Salvatore - The Dame

Across the back field the next line of Pryd defenders looked on in dismay, knowing that they were next.

“Fight them from the trees!” the field commander yelled, though neither he nor the men he led were sure of what that meant. They had few range weapons, few arrows and spears, remaining.

On came Ethelbert’s hundreds, seeing the tower of Pryd before them, not so far, seeing victory, not so far.

The men of Pryd Town broke ranks and ran.

The men of Ethelbert shouted all the more eagerly and ran ahead even faster.

“Where is Bannagran?” one fleeing defender cried. “Will the Bear of Honce come to our aid?”

“Where is Laird Yeslnik? He has deserted us with his army and now we are doomed!” cried another. Many of those in full retreat made it to the road and turned fast for Pryd Town with men coming from the trees along either side, scrambling and stumbling, terror clearly stamped upon their faces.

Ahead of them all, the shouting started in the town. Alarm and confusion echoed from the walls, followed by shrieks of surprise.

Among those retreating along the road arose fears that Ethelbert had a second force pressing Pryd from the north. What else could incite such commotion in the town so far ahead of the retreat?

What else, indeed.

Out of the gates of Pryd Town, he came, dressed all in bejeweled bronze armor and driving the chariot of Prydae, a cart of war not seen since the former laird’s demise. A rack of spears beside him, his legendary great axe waving high above his head, Bannagran came on in splendor, unafraid, eager for battle. Behind him surged the rest of Pryd’s garrison, some on chariot, most just running and waving pitchforks and clubs, rallying to the call of Bannagran.

Those on the road parted as he neared, for he showed no sign of slowing. “Charge ahead!” he cried, his voice strong and resonant. This man, so long the hero of Pryd, the champion of its lairds, shamed those who would flee before Ethelbert.

The road behind him crowded with soldiers, now running back to the south, back toward Ethelbert’s approach. All along the sides, among the fields and the trees, cheers went up for the Bear of Honce. “Charge! Charge!” replaced the fearful “Run away!”

Bannagran rushed in front of it all and showed no sign of slowing the fabulous chariot and his mighty team. Ethelbert’s leading line loomed before him now, but he didn’t make any move to veer or halt. To those before him, he seemed in the grip of suicidal glee, but to those behind him, he appeared as the heart of Pryd, the champion, the warrior.

Ethelbert’s men in Bannagran’s path set their spears for his charge, digging them in to skewer the team.

But Bannagran dropped his axe to the flooring beside him and took up a spear, veering his team as he neared and letting fly one missile after another. As one man fell mortally wounded and a second lurched aside, Bannagran turned the chariot back in line and plowed ahead. For now the integrity of the block was gone, and now the armored team and the spike-wheeled chariot crashed through, scattering men. Another spear flew from the driver, another of Ethelbert’s men spiraled down to the ground in agony.

Bannagran had his axe in hand in a flash and chopped across to drop another man, then stabbed its pointed tip back to fell yet another. He turned his chariot, rambling right off the road, crashing through brush and men alike, the horses trampling everything in their path.

So great was the spectacle that few of Ethelbert’s men remained focused on that which followed Bannagran, the weight of Pryd’s garrison charging with renewed hope and eagerness.

The chariot crashed through a thicket and nearly broke apart as the wheels caught on some roots. Never slowing in the least, Bannagran merely leaped from the cart, great axe in one hand, spear in the other. He rushed at a group of ten men and noted which was giving the orders. That commander fell, Bannagran’s spear deep in his chest.

In leaped the wild warrior, his axe slashing with great and powerful strokes. No man would stand against him; his roars stole their strength, his axe sheared their limbs and crushed their bones and let their blood. He ran back toward the road, calling for his men to rally behind him, cutting down enemies with every step, it seemed.

The center of Ethelbert’s line collapsed; the men of Pryd, working in a wedge formation with Bannagran at their tip, pressed through, widening the breach, splitting Ethelbert’s forces asunder.

Bannagran kept looking for their leaders, kept listening for their commanders. Whenever he spied one, he rushed that way, cutting his path to the man. Enemies struck at him from the side but from afar, throwing stones or knives or small spears, with none daring approach the man, the possessed and crazed warrior.

A dozen wounds marked Bannagran’s body, but if he felt any of them he didn’t show it. Every hit of stone or knife seemed to spur him on further, more furiously, as if the pain was only granting him greater, almost supernatural strength.

And the spectacle of Bannagran, the great Bear of Honce, commanded too much attention of the men of Ethelbert, allowing the charging forces of Pryd to cut deeper, to gain more strength and momentum.

It was Ethelbert’s line that broke that day, the old laird and his forces retreating fast to the south.

Ethelbert knew his folly as he fled. He should have waited for Affwin Wi and the others to return to him before making his move against Pryd Town. He should have had some counter to the strength of this demon warrior from Pryd, a man he had seen in battle a decade before. He had gambled to gain the center and strengthen his hold, and he had lost, but he was not forlorn as he and his forces regrouped that night, several miles south of Pryd Town, with no intention of turning back to the north.

For his greatest foe, Laird Delaval, this man who would be king, was dead.

Silent as the shadow he crossed, Jameston Sequin moved along the line of pines, circumventing the drifts of snow with practiced ease. He knew this place, this tended grove, and knew, too, that he was likely being watched. He knew the watcher, though, and had come to see that very man.

Still, he kept his caution and covert manner, unsure of who might be gathered around the one he expected was more than aware of his presence.

A large raven flopped onto the branch of a nearby pine, looked right at him, and cawed loudly.

Jameston straightened and stared at the bird, smiling knowingly.

The bird hopped down and before it ever landed on the ground transformed suddenly and with a bright flash of light into an old man, bald and with a beard braided by clumps of dung, dressed in light green robes, a heavy fur cloak, and open-toed sandals. Only a Samhaist priest could keep his feet from freezing to black with those feeble shoes.

“One day I’ll catch you unaware,” Jameston said to the man.

“Or I’ll grow tired of your trying,” the Samhaist replied, but Jameston knew it to be a good-natured threat. Despite all their differences, despite Jameston siding with Gwydre against the troll and goblin hordes of Badden, despite Jameston’s obvious disdain for the Samhaist religion, Wisterwhig was not an enemy. Not a friend, perhaps, but not an enemy.

“So, Badden’s gone,” Jameston said.

“Killed by Dame Gwydre,” Wisterwhig replied. “And by his own arrogance.”

Jameston raised a bushy gray eyebrow at that startling admission, to which Wisterwhig merely shrugged.

“He did find Mithranidoon, and that is no small thing, of course,” the Samhaist said.

“You disagreed with his war?”

Again Wisterwhig, a man Jameston found quite reasonable compared with most of his Samhaist brethren, merely shrugged and then said, “It was not my place to agree or disagree. I do not remember Badden ever asking my opinion.”