“You got no belly for it,” Jameston said, obviously seeing the sour expression on Bransen’s face.
Bransen looked at him hard. “You do?”
Jameston gave a helpless chuckle. “You’re starting to understand why I live in the woods.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“I already told you . . .”
“I know, a purpose bigger than your own life,” said Bransen. “Are you, am I, possessed of magic enough so that we can just lift a gemstone and utter a phrase and repair all of this?” As he finished, he swept his arm toward the south, where a trio of burned-out cottages stood. Even the animals on the small farms had been killed, and several cows lay on the field, covered with pecking birds.
“Not thinking that, and you’re not either,” said Jameston. “We’ll find ways to help. That’s something.”
Bransen nodded, his expression grim. They set off again, heading east, and Jameston’s words seemed prophetic soon after, when cries for help and of fear rent the heavy air.
The pair rushed through a stand of thick trees and around a rocky bluff, Jameston stringing his bow as they ran. With the sounds coming from over an old and crumbling stone wall—crumbling, but still taller than a tall man—Bransen reflexively called upon his brooch and his Jhesta Tu training, reaching into his concentration and the malachite stone simultaneously, instantly, instinctively. He leaped high. Too high. He felt weightless, the malachite working its magical levitation and amplified by his Jhesta Tu understanding. He had meant to grab a hold on the top of the wall and pull himself over, but he climbed into the air to the wall top and above, floating right over, almost as if he was swimming in the air.
He remained in control of his body and kept his wits about him as he crossed over the stone wall. From that bird’s-eye view, the Highwayman witnessed the chaos. Before and below him poor peasants scrambled among several small cottages, while armed men chased them and beat them down. Out of one house rushed a young warrior, his hands full of bread, a peasant woman charging after him, screaming for him to stop. One of his companions stepped up from the side and cracked her across the back of the neck with a heavy club, throwing her face down to the ground, where she lay still.
The Highwayman noticed a bow aimed his way. He reached into the gem again, to the smoky quartz stone. The archer let fly, and the arrow missed cleanly but the bowman cheered, thinking his shot dead center, for it had surely hit the decoy image the Highwayman had created of himself.
Below, the man who had clubbed the woman lifted his weapon to strike her again as she lay in the dirt.
The Highwayman dropped to the ground before him.
“Wha—” the man managed to gasp before he was hit with a series of short punches and flying elbows that sent him spinning away. The Highwayman turned as the stealer of bread spun back and dropped the loaf, sword in hand.
The Highwayman’s fabulous blade came forth, slashing across to cleanly intercept the warrior’s thrust, parrying the enemy blade, a second then a third time. Any unwitting onlooker might have thought the warrior deftly picking off the attacks of this strange, black-clothed warrior. But Bransen and the warrior knew the truth of it: The poor warrior had no idea of the fast-changing angle of the longer and stronger sword coming at him and the only reason his smaller iron weapon was parrying was because this far superior swordsman was aiming for that iron weapon!
“Affwin Wi!” the warrior cried desperately. “Ethelbert! Ethelbert!”
The Highwayman knew the first words as a name, so much like his mother’s own, but the stunning realization didn’t slow his assault. He hit the iron sword again and again, sending numbing jolts up the warrior’s arms, and finally he maneuvered the man where he wanted, at the same time using the noise of the fight to bring another pair of marauders charging at him.
His blade came across left to right, driving the iron sword out before it. The Highwayman stepped forward in a spin, elbow flying high to snap at the warrior’s throat as he came around, sending the man gasping to the ground but leaving the Highwayman perfectly balanced and squared up against the newest two attackers.
One attacker, Bransen mentally corrected, as one of the charging enemies lurched suddenly and went staggering aside, an arrow deep in his hip.
The other man charged in, screaming, lifting an axe above his head for a powerful chop.
But in the blink of an eye the Highwayman was up against him and inside the angle of any strike. The sword slashed above the attacker, lopping the head off the high-raised axe even as Bransen’s free hand grasped the handle. With the weighted head suddenly gone the attacker lost all balance. Bransen twisted his arm that held the axe handle, repeatedly slamming it down against the man’s forehead.
The man stumbled, dazed. The Highwayman let go of the handle, grabbed the man by the front of his leather tunic, and again reached into the power of the Jhesta Tu and of the brooch, two properties together.
He used the malachite’s levitation powers to lessen the weight of the man and the jolting power of the graphite backing to add lightning into his throw.
The warrior went flying away up high, over the side of the small cottage, to land on the thatched roof. He lay twitching in violent spasms that made him bite the tip off his own tongue.
The Highwayman looked to the fallen woman, blood running from her ear. Rage gripped him. He charged the center courtyard of the house cluster where several warriors had gathered, some setting a defense against him, others lifting bows and firing off to the north—at Jameston, Bransen assumed.
They were ready for him and too many, but he didn’t care. The image of the peasant woman, her skull broken, haunted and drove him on. He lifted his sword, and the blade burst into flames.
An arrow shot out and struck him in his left shoulder.
Nearly blinded by rage and pain, the Highwayman yelled and charged all the faster. He grabbed at the power of serpentine, the fire shield, and then demanded more of the ruby firestone. Now flames covered not only his sword but his entire body!
Like a living bonfire, half-blinded by flames, and with agony biting him from the arrow deep in his shoulder, the Highwayman surged into their midst.
They ran, terrified, overwhelmed, and confused. The Highwayman caught one and cut him down. He heard the whizzing of arrows cutting the air nearby as Jameston Sequin took down a second and then a third.
Weariness and pain overwhelmed him. The Highwayman dropped the magic enacting the fiery cloak, then dismissed the serpentine shield and fell fully into the central gem of the brooch, the soul stone, seeking the warmth of its healing magic.
Bransen knelt in the dirt while all around him townsfolk cheered and screamed and cried. Glad he was to see the familiar boots of Jameston before him, to feel his companion’s hand grasp him under his good shoulder and help him back to his feet.
“Pull it out,” Bransen said through gritted teeth, meaning the arrow.
“I’ll get whiskey and something for you to bite.”
Bransen grabbed him hard as he started to turn away. “Now!” he demanded.
“Boy, you can’t—”
“Now!” Bransen insisted, tugging Jameston’s hand toward the arrow shaft. Jameston still resisted, so Bransen reached for the bolt himself and grimaced all the more as he tugged on the arrow.
“Push it through!” Jameston enjoined. He grasped Bransen’s hand with his own, reversing the pressure.
Waves of agony assaulted Bransen, but he fell into his meditation and into the soul stone. A moment later he felt a sudden looseness in the wound as Jameston pulled the arrow from the back of his shoulder.
“You won’t be using that arm anytime soon,” the scout lamented. Bransen didn’t even hear him, his thoughts fully immersed in his discipline and the gemstone magic even as his free hand grasped the wound.
The townsfolk gathered about them, clapping and nodding their appreciation, but Bransen’s focus remained absolute. Jameston began talking to the people, but
Bransen didn’t hear. He stood straight and let go of his shoulder: No blood came forth. Jameston and the others looked on in amazement as Bransen reached down and retrieved his sword—with his left hand. He spun the weapon over and slid it expertly into the sheath on his left hip, showing only a trace of a grimace.
“I’ll be using the arm sooner than you believe,” Bransen said softly to his friend.
“How’d you jump that wall like that? How’d you throw a man onto a roof? How’d you do that with the fire?” Jameston came back at him, one, two, three.
Bransen smiled coyly, though in truth he really had no idea. Something momentous was happening here, some joining of his Jhesta Tu sensibilities and the powerful brooch upon his forehead. He had walked through flames before, stepping from the log pile of a Samhaist bonfire to strike down the evil Bernivvigar. His Jhesta Tu training alone had assisted him in keeping the flames from his body, but it had been a very temporary effect. This time was different. He had magically summoned the flames about his whole body and had hardly felt their warmth. Not a wisp of smoke now arose from his clothing. Skilled monks could use their serpentine to enact such shields against fire, of course, but the speed and completeness of Bransen’s work with the gems at his disposal had surprised even him. Made him ponder what other wonders lay before him.
“Oh, but ye saved us!” one old woman cried, taking Bransen from his private thoughts. He looked around at the gathering of townsfolk then, noting the absence of men. This village was old and very young, but there was little in between, like so many of the other villages of warravaged Honce.
“Who were these marauders?” Jameston asked. “What laird do they serve?”
“Ethelbert’s own,” an old man answered. “And ain’t yerself?”
Jameston’s head shook most emphatically. “We serve at the pleasure of Dame Gwydre.”
The old man looked skeptical. “But he’s looking like one o’ Ethelbert’s,” he said, pointing to Bransen.
The clothes, Bransen knew. He sucked in his breath at the reminder that there were Jhesta Tu about, that he was close to his goal, his last best hope.
“Not with Ethelbert—never met the man,” Jameston assured them. “But these soldiers were from Laird Ethelbert’s ranks?”
“This time,” the old man replied. The resignation in his voice was not hard to hear. “Next time it’ll be Delaval’s men.”
“Yeslnik’s,” a girl corrected, and the old man snorted as if that mattered not at all. It didn’t, from the perspective of the poor villagers caught in the middle of violent chaos.
“They be all about the land, roaming like animals,” another elderly man explained. “Prince Milwellis is fighting at the coast again, but in here there’s just pieces of the armies, scattered and finding food where they can.”
“And who do you serve, Ethelbert or Yeslnik?” Bransen asked to many a blank stare.
“Don’t think they care,” Jameston suggested in a whisper.
N
o camps, no food wagons, no one giving orders,” Jameston elaborated as he and Bransen made their way out of the small village. “Just a bunch of broken soldiers, hungry and scared and with nothing to believe in. I’ve seen it before.”
Bransen shook his head, not able to grasp it.
“They fell off the side of the armies—both armies,” Jameston explained. “Or they ran off the side. There’s a point where it’s too much fighting. Drives a man blood-crazy, takes the point of it all from him.”
“Was there ever a point to it?” Bransen asked. “More than the greed of a couple of selfish lairds, I mean?”
Jameston shrugged. “Pride of home, fear of not defending what’s yours. Starts that way, might still be that way for many in the ranks of both armies, but for some there comes a time when they can’t remember their home, at least not well enough to connect it to what they’re doing way out here. Maybe some just have nothing left to fight for.”
“So they slaughter defenseless villagers?”
Jameston shrugged again. “I’m not excusing it, boy. I’m telling you what is, not what should be.”
“And it will only continue to get worse,” said Bransen.
“Or so many will just be dead that there won’t be enough left to make it worse,” said Jameston.
“Your optimism inspires me.”
“You don’t care about it anyway, boy. Remember?”
Bransen shot him a cold look. “We should go straight to Ethelbert dos Entel,” Jameson said, his laugh a pitiful sound.
“We?” Bransen asked. “I should go. Where Jameston goes is for Jameston to decide.”
“Already told you I was following you.”
“Have I told you that you needn’t?”
“Every step.”
“Have I told you that I don’t want you to?”
“You’ll get to that eventually,” Jameston replied with a disarming grin. “But I’m here now, so I can tell you that you’d be quite the fool to walk into Ethelbert’s city.”
“How so? How am I to find the Jhesta Tu I seek? Should I just walk from village to village?”
“Going to Ethelbert’s city might get you to meet them, indeed, but not in the way you’re wanting.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying, boy, I’m saying. There’s a laird in Ethelbert dos Entel who might be thinking that it’s past time to negotiate a truce. We’re not far from his home, with nothing but the sea behind him. Wouldn’t he have a treasure to offer King Yeslnik if the Highwayman walked into his midst?”
“But he above all must know that I was not involved!” Bransen protested.
“You’re still believing that matters? After all this and all you’ve seen?”
Bransen considered it for a moment, then gave a helpless shake of his head. “No.”
“What do you want?” Jameston asked him. “You want to meet these assassins Ethelbert’s brought from Behr—”
“They are Jhesta Tu, not assassins.”
“King Delaval would disagree. If he were alive, I mean.”
“If they killed King Delaval . . .”
“You saw the sword.”
“It was because they believed in the cause against him,” Bransen stubbornly finished. “The code of Jhest is not mercenary, it is principle. If the Jhesta Tu have allied with Laird Ethelbert, then that speaks well of Laird Ethelbert.”
“And if I give you that, will you answer my question? What do you want, boy?”
“First, I want you to stop calling me boy.”
Jameston nodded. “What would be your perfect life? To live with Cadayle and your child, your children, and with Callen nearby? All in peace? To farm the land or hunt for food? To go to church and pray to Whatever gods you find?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What do you want?”
“I want . . .” Bransen took a deep breath and truly considered the question. “I want a home for my family, and peace, yes. I’m sick of smelling corpses.”
“Are you sick of battle? Even when it means battling someone like Badden or that priest Bernivvigar before him?”
Bransen looked at Jameston as if the man had just slapped him across the face.
“You spend your hours working that sword and working your body through practice—practice for fighting,” Jameston remarked. “You just found strength back there in that village that I’ve never seen before. Did you hate it, b . . . Bransen? Do you hate the fighting even when you’re thinking the fight to be just?”
“Just? For which laird? They are two sides of the same ugly stone!”
“Forget that!” Jameston scolded. “Forget the greed and the pride behind it all and make it personal, just for now. Just so you can answer—to yourself and not to me. What drove you to rescue Callen and Cadayle? What did you feel when Badden’s head flew from his shoulders? What do you want, Bransen Garibond? What do you want, Highwayman? Who is the Highwayman? Why is he the Highwayman?”
E
very word stabbed at Bransen’s sensibilities profoundly. He wanted to shout at Jameston that Dame Gwydre had obviously put him up to that line of questioning, so much had it echoed her more gentle nudging over the winter in Pellinor.
He knew what he wanted regarding Cadayle and his coming child—and more children, he hoped. For them, with them, he wanted peace and security and enough comfort to give them the room to love and enjoy one another.
But Jameston was right, he knew, though he wouldn’t openly admit it at that strange moment. There was more to him than Bransen Garibond.
There was the Highwayman.
TWENTY-THREE
From the Depths
W
e might be able to get to smoother and deeper water,” the helmsman reported to Dawson as he ran back amidships. “I’m betting Lady Dreamer can run from them warships when the swells ain’t so tall.”
“Aye, and what o’ Shelligan’s, then? She’s not so fleet,” another crewman reminded.
“What of her, then?” the first replied angrily. “If we’re to fight beside her, then we’re to drown beside her!”
“Enough o’ that,” Dawson implored. He turned to Cormack and particularly to Milkeila. “You’ve got some magic, I’m hoping.”
Milkeila glanced at the vast and powerful ocean waters, then back at Dawson doubtfully.
“A few tricks?” asked Dawson.
Both the young fighters nodded reluctantly.
“And so we aren’t leaving Shelligan’s Run,” Dawson declared loudly. He focused his gaze on the helmsman. “A sorry group o’ friends we’d be and a sorrier commander by far for meself if we’d leave our friends to certain doom.”
“But it’s certain doom for them if we stay and fight, too,” the helmsman stubbornly reminded.
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