R. Salvatore - The Dame

Yeslnik continued to stare at him for many heartbeats, and gradually Yeslnik’s face softened into a cold chuckle. “Practiced in the art of diplomacy, I see,” he said. “Well done! You have successfully delayed-not avoided, but delayed-the inevitable confrontation. But take heart, for I am certain that your Father Artolivan will choose wisely, when choose he must. Delaval is for Honce, Ethelbert is for Behr, and the beasts of Behr are no friends to the brothers of Abelle. Their gods precede yours and reject yours, and their God-Voice, the father of their religion, has put more than a few of your missionaries to the stake.”

It was true enough, Bannagran knew, but remained quiet. Many of the missionary brothers of Abelle, those nagging and unrelenting proselytizing prigs, had indeed ventured into Behr and never returned, by all reports. Bannagran knew one exception, however, a monk from Pryd who had come back from the deepest reaches of the southern desert, along with an exotic wife, no less, when Bannagran was a young man, serving his friend Prydae and Prydae’s father, Laird Pryd. The brothers of Chapel Pryd had not treated that monk very well, Bannagran recalled.

The standoff between Yeslnik and Reandu, neither of whom was blinking, ended when a man crashed into the room, huffing and puffing, and breathlessly announced, “They come.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Yeslnik, turning to the man. He rubbed his hands together eagerly and flexed his fingers as if he couldn’t wait to wrap them around a sword hilt (which amused Bannagran, since he had seen this one in “battle” before).

“So it will begin as we expected right here in Pryd Holding,” continued Yeslnik. “Ethelbert’s move in the north was crushed by Milwellis of Palmaristown. He knows that Milwellis will now march east and then south along Felidan Bay, then south from there, sweeping up in his wake villages formerly in Ethelbert’s pay. Thus, Ethelbert did not retreat-he cannot retreat. Not this time, or he will be pushed into the sea. So he comes with all that he has left to strike at the heart and center of King Delaval’s gains.”

Yeslnik clenched his fist, his eyes sparkling with diabolical glee. “Never could you have guessed that your humble little hamlet of Pryd would become the center of the world! For all the world is drawn to this place, as if the weight of Pryd Town pulls in the armies, compels them to this place in this time to finally, undeniably decide! Never could you have guessed this, eh, Bannagran?”

Not in my darkest nightmares, the warrior thought but did not say.

Laird Ethelbert slowly sauntered on his mount toward his tent, as if neither he nor the beast could handle a swifter pace. Palfry, his devoted attendant, rushed up to help him dismount. Glancing around to ensure that no one else was watching, the proud old man accepted the helping hand.

He was just into his seventies now, his once bulky frame wilting and thinning about his arms, while thickening about his waist. He was glad for the comfortable robe he wore, a gift from a Jacinthan merchant. The men of Behr were so much more practical in their dress than the men of Honce.

“You must have ridden under a low branch, my laird,” Palfry said. He brushed a leafy twig from what remained of Ethelbert’s hair. Once thick, black, and curly, now it was thin gray fluff. Ethelbert’s eyes, though, were still the steel blue of an ocean under clouds, still hinted at a great depth behind them, and still held the sparkle of a dancing wave.

“Bah, more likely a squirrel threw the branch upon me,” Ethelbert replied somewhat churlishly. “Every creature in this part of Honce is against me, I say!”

Palfry smiled, so in love with this man who had become like a father, though Ethelbert had no living heirs. The laird had made it clear to Palfry that, though he was not in line for Ethelbert’s title, neither would he be cast from the court of whomever ruled the great holding. Ethelbert had seen to that.

“Where are my commanders?” Laird Ethelbert asked.

Palfry turned and nodded his chin toward a distant clearing, where three warriors sat on logs around a tree stump, a parchment spread upon it. Ethelbert started for them, Palfry at his heels.

“My laird,” the three commanders said together, standing as one.

“The soldiers were pleased that you rode their line, no doubt,” said Kirren Howen, the senior of the group.

“Huzzah for Laird Ethelbert!” added Myrick the Bold, champion of Entel, the name given to the port regions of the city of Ethelbert.

Ethelbert hushed him with a waving hand and a snicker. “It is the least we owe them and less than they want, I am sure,” he said. “They want to be done with this foolishness and go home, as do I.”

“Our cause is right,” said Tyne, a young and promising leader, a man Ethelbert had attached to his elite guard right before the advent of war.

“Righter than Delaval’s, to be sure,” the more seasoned Kirren Howen added.

“The claim of a dactyl demon would be more right than that of Delaval,” Ethelbert said with a derisive snicker. “And I’d sooner my one daughter, were she still alive, marry the dactyl!”

Ethelbert’s joke prompted an uncomfortable laugh around the tree stump, for all knew that Laird Ethelbert spoke only half in jest, revealing his deep wounds over Laird Delaval’s treachery. In times past, the two greatest of lairds had worked together to build Honce’s network of roads. With those roads connecting the many holdings, marauding powries and goblins had been more easily driven away. Trade had blossomed, and a sense of unity had spread across the land. Citizens thought of the notion and nation of Honce more than a particular holding.

All that changed abruptly when Laird Delaval struck, and struck hard, declaring himself King of Honce.

Laird Ethelbert had lived too long, had fought too many battles, and had worked to bring too many warring lairds to common ground to allow such a thing. And thus the current war began.

“What news of the son of Panlamaris?” Ethelbert asked now.

“He has not turned south,” said Kirren Howen.

“To the east, still,” said Myrick.

“He will turn,” Ethelbert assured them. “Milwellis’s win in Pollcree has convinced Delaval that this push to the center is our last, desperate try. And not without reason,” he admitted.

“Had that battle turned differently…” Kirren Howen started to say, but Ethelbert cut him short.

“It could not have. We did not understand the true strength of Palmaristown or how deeply Laird Panlamaris had entrenched himself with Delaval. Panlamaris is seeking the favor of the man who claims the title of king, no doubt, so that Palmaristown can control all of the seaborne merchant trade in this new kingdom Delaval proposes. Our friends from the Mantis Arm peninsula could not match Prince Panlamaris’s ground forces.”

“I do not consider this to be our last and desperate try!” Myrick exclaimed.

Ethelbert’s chuckle calmed him. “I am more interested in what our enemies consider it. In recognizing their thoughts may we act appropriately. Fear not, my fearless Myrick”-his joke on the man’s title brought a bit of laughter from Palfry, Kirren Howen, and Tyne-“for I am not desperate, I assure you, and while I mourn the loss of so many allies at Pollcree, I have no doubt that the fierce peninsula warriors handed the son of Panlamaris great losses in the battle. He is stung, surely, and his soldiers, who have never marched across the land, are already missing their homes, I am certain. Their legs are built for ship planks, not cobblestones. We are not as wounded as they believe, of course. We have other allies and other methods, and I can only hope that the apparent victory in the north has served to foster a feeling of invulnerability among Delaval and his followers. None fall harder than the confident, after all.”