The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  Prydae perked up at the disparaging reference to the largest and most populous holding in all Honce. Set at the base of the great river that cut the main region of Honce off from the vast northern forests, Laird Delaval’s city was more than twice the size of Ethelbert’s. The river teemed with fish, the fields to the east of Delaval City were rich and fertile, and the wood brought in from the west allowed the Laird Delaval to build wondrous sailing ships that even Laird Ethelbert had been known to grudgingly purchase.

  Laird Delaval’s army, and his warships, were battling powries up the coast in the north, and with great success, by all reports. That success of his rival seemed to grate on Laird Ethelbert, from what Prydae could tell.

  It all began to make sense to the warrior prince from Pryd Holding. The roads had brought the holdings of Honce closer together, had greatly increased trade and communication between them. Several lairds were rumored to be in secret alliance already. During this campaign, with so many armies marching side by side, Prince Prydae had come to envision a time, in his lifetime perhaps, when Honce would become a united kingdom under a single ruling laird. Of course, that presented the question of who that leader might be.

  “We are scoring the greatest victories of all against the powries,” Laird Ethelbert went on. “More of the vicious dwarves have died here than in the north, and I attribute that to the finer coordination between our forces.” He lifted his goblet in a toast, and all the others followed suit.

  “In the north, of course, there is little cooperation and a more-hierarchical command,” Ethelbert went on, predictably now to Prydae, who hid his knowing smile. “Laird Delaval is not interested in the plans and movements of his peers, unless those movements follow his precise instructions.”

  Prydae thought to point out that Delaval’s force was many times greater than the combined armies of the other lairds up in the north beside him, but he kept silent.

  “This battle will be done soon,” Ethelbert remarked.

  “We can hope for that,” said Prydae.

  “Indeed.” Ethelbert held up his goblet again. “And when it is done, we must all be aware that Honce will emerge a different land than the one of scattered holdings which began this campaign. The roads are nearly clear of powries and goblins, from the gulf to the mountains, and our people will be able to trade even more vigorously outside their communities.

  Thus, we must anticipate the changes, my friends. We must prepare ourselves for the new reality that will be Honce. Smaller holdings, such as your own, will need allies, or perhaps even an overseeing laird of a greater holding to secure your defense.”

  So there it was.

  Prydae felt Bannagran’s stare upon him, and he turned to offer a comforting nod to his excitable and uneasy companion.

  “An overseeing laird?” the prince calmly echoed.

  “Various cities joined together in a greater and more powerful holding,” Ethelbert explained.

  “Are you asking permission to annex Pryd, Laird Ethelbert?”

  The blunt question had Laird Ethelbert’s commanders bristling and brought a slight gasp from Bannagran. But if Ethelbert was at all discomfited by it, he hid the fact. Again he seemed the calm man on a great horse, unbothered as he walked past the broken bodies of his inferiors.

  “I am suggesting that you and your father begin to give consideration to your future,” Ethelbert replied.

  “We ever do. That is the duty of an independent laird above all, is it not?”

  “Be reasonable, Prince Prydae. When this messy business with the powries is done, the world around you will be changed. You cannot deny that. Roads carry trade and they also carry armies.”

  “And Honce will no longer be a collection of separate holdings?”

  “A few perhaps, or perhaps a single kingdom. We all see that. And you must understand that in the end, it will be Ethelbert or it will be Delaval. I offer you a peaceful alliance.”

  “You mean a subjugation.”

  “Not so. For all purposes, your land will remain your own and under your control, though, yes, I will speak for you in the greater affairs of Honce. I will require some taxes, to be sure, and your share of the men to serve in the forces who will defeat all challenges. But for the family of Pryd, life will hardly change, and certainly not for the worse.”

  “And if we refuse your generous offer?”

  Ethelbert shrugged. “Who can say what will happen? Will an army from Delaval march upon you?”

  “Will an army from Ethelbert?”

  The commanders bristled again, one even rising, but Laird Ethelbert merely laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “We are comrades in arms, joined in common struggle. I admire your independence, young Prince of Pryd. It is one of the reasons that I come to you so early with my offer and the reason I do not wait until you have more wine inside of you to openly make this offer.” He shrugged and laughed again. “The plague and the sea took my offspring, you have no doubt heard. I am childless. The line of Ethelbert will end with my passing. If I had a son as worthy as Prydae, I would die content.”

  Prince Prydae tried hard to keep his emotions from his face. Was Ethelbert hinting at a greater alliance here? Did he imply the lairdship of his holding would pass to Prydae?

  “But enough of speculation,” Ethelbert said jovially. “We have fine food to share and a fresh victory to better consume our conversation. Drink heartily and eat until your belly rumbles with content, I pray you!” He held up his goblet again.

  “To Prince Prydae the Bold!” he declared.

  Prydae noted that two of the four Ethelbert commanders seemed less than thrilled at that though they did lift their goblets to him.

  15

  The Stork

  Bransen Garibond consciously thrust one hip forward and then the other, rocking his frail body so that his legs alternately dropped in front of him. He was small for his age and desperately thin. His unkempt hair was black as a raven’s wing, and his eyes, too, favored his mother’s southern heritage, showing so brown as to appear black. His skin was more brown than most in the region, but not enough to show that he had the blood of Behr running through him, particularly in a land where the peasants were almost always dirty. Besides, no one ever looked closely enough to notice, for the more obvious distinctions of Bransen—like his awkward walk or the purple birthmark that circled his right arm—separated him from the folk of Pryd more than the nuances of his heritage ever could.

  Over the years, the young boy had learned to give a hasty glance at each footfall, to determine if the foot was firmly planted so that he could continue. He couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet, and if he stepped on an uneven surface or put his foot down on an edge, he would stumble and fall. Bransen hated when he fell in a public place, for pulling himself up from a prone position was no easy task, and showed little in the way of grace to the gawking—always gawking—onlookers.

  Fortunately for the boy, he knew every step of every road in the eastern reaches of Pryd Town, and all the way out to his father’s house by the lake. He rarely fell these days, unless of course one of the other boys ran over and knocked him to the ground, just so they all could laugh at him while he flopped around.

  I don’t like to drool. I can’t feel the drool. I don’t know when I’m doing it. But they laugh, and even the men and women stare or turn away in disgust. The drool and the snot. Always it is on my face, and crusting my sleeves. I don’t like it!

  He heard someone cry out, “Stork!” and he knew he was doomed.

  That’s what they called him.

  Bransen locked his eyes forward and forced his hips to rotate faster, propelling him along at a great pace for him, one jerking, stiff-legged stride at a time, his head lolling and his arms flailing all the while. But still, within a minute or two, he heard the footsteps behind him, a pair of boys running up close behind, and when that rhythmic trotting changed suddenly, Bransen knew that they had taken up a mocking “stork” gait behind him, falling into
line.

  He didn’t stop his forward-leaning walk. He had come into town to buy some grain for Garibond, and he was determined to push through this inconvenience. He brought his arm up in a jerky motion and wiped it across his face, and though he unintentionally smacked himself quite hard, he didn’t blink or show it at all.

  After another minute, the two boys apparently tired of imitating and ran around him, blocking his way.

  “Hello, Stork,” said Tarkus Breen.

  Bransen kept moving, but Tarkus bashed him in the chest with his open palm.

  Bransen stumbled and had to work his hips frantically to keep from falling. “Leeeave…m-m-me…alone,” he cried, his mouth contorting painfully as he tried to form the syllables.

  Both boys laughed. Most people did when Bransen spoke.

  “I…have to…b-b-b-buuy…”

  The laughter drowned him out, and Tarkus slapped him across the face, silencing him.

  Bransen narrowed his eyes and stared intently at his nemesis. In that moment, standing perfectly still, face locked in a determined and hateful grimace, Bransen did manage some measure of intimidation, did seem, for just an instant, as formidable and normal, as anyone else.

  Tarkus sucked in his breath and even backed off a step. But the other boy came forward and shoved Bransen hard.

  He wobbled and he scrambled, his hips swaying wildly, and then he fell, facedown to the dirt. He hadn’t even been able to close his mouth as he hit, and now tasted dirt and blood.

  Bransen fought hard against the tears welling up. He didn’t want to cry; he tried not to cry in front of anyone anymore, other than Garibond. He could cry in front of his father; his father often cried with him.

  I won’t cry, he told himself over and over, but some sobs did bubble out. He heard someone shouting, but he was too upset to register the speaker or the words. He did take note of Tarkus mocking, “B-b-b-b-bye.” Then he heard the boys run off.

  His father, Garibond, had told him that his life would get better as he got older, but in fact, the last year had been the worst. Most of the menfolk, including the older boys, were away at the powrie war. Those older boys had never been kind to Bransen, but their abuse was usually more verbal than physical. Since they had left, though, the boys of around Bransen’s age had taken free run of the town without restraint.

  Bransen settled back down in the dirt, allowing himself to relax for a moment to get past his crying. He had to get up now that they were gone, and that was going to take all his attention and determination.

  There was no time for tears and no use for them anyway.

  But still…

  As he started to rotate his shoulders so that he could roll to one side, his feeble arm finding a supporting angle in the dirt, Bransen felt a hand grab his shoulder. He stiffened immediately and closed his eyes, expecting a barrage of blows to rain down upon him, as so often happened.

  The touch was gentle and supportive. “Are you all right?” came a soft whisper in his ear, a voice he knew and welcomed. He allowed his helper, a girl his age, to turn him over, and he looked into a beautiful face.

  “C-c-c-ca…dayle,” he stammered, and he looked up at her, soaking in her every aspect. She was not tall for her age and was thin, like all the peasants. But she had a softness to her, a rich and smooth texture to her skin, that many of the other poor commoners lacked. Her blue eyes seemed to glow when she smiled. Her whole face seemed to glow, for Cadayle blushed often, and almost always when she smiled. Her hair was long and mostly straight, the color of wheat, and it flowed like tall stalks in a windblown field.

  “Oh, Bransen,” Cadayle replied, and her smile brightened the day for him and helped him push his tears away. “Every time I see you, you are dirty!”

  It was not an insult. Bransen knew that from the tone of her voice, and simply because it was Cadayle who had said it. She never insulted him, never hurt him. She never judged him, and even wiped the snot and spittle from his face without complaint. And most important of all to him, she always waited patiently for him to stutter through his broken sentences.

  With Cadayle’s help, he got back to his feet, and managed to offer his thanks.

  Cadayle gently brushed the dirt off him. “Pay them no heed,” she said as she worked. “They’re stupid, is all. And they know they’re stupid and they know you’re not.”

  Bransen smiled, but he didn’t believe her.

  Still, it was comforting to hear the words.

  “You’ve blood on your shirt.”

  Cadayle looked down to see that her mother was right, for a dirty red-brown smudge marred the left shoulder of her tan shirt. She looked back at her mother and shrugged.

  “Were you fighting?” the woman demanded.

  “No, ma.”

  “Did someone hit you? Or did you trip and fall?” The older woman’s voice went from suspicious to concerned as she approached her young daughter.

  “It’s not me blood, Ma,” Cadayle explained.

  Her mother began brushing at the smudge.

  “It’s Bransen’s. The boys were beating him again. He cut his lip.”

  Cadayle’s mother sighed and shook her head. “As if they’ve nothing better to do than beat the poor creature. The folk’re nasty, Cadayle, meaner than you’d ever believe. How did you get yourself involved in it?”

  “I yelled at them and they ran off. I just helped Bransen up, is all.”

  Cadayle’s mother took her daughter’s chin in her hand and forced the girl to look at her directly. “You listen to me,” she said. “You did right in helping him. You always help him, or anyone else needing your help. I’m proud of you.”

  Cadayle was surprised by the sudden intensity in her mother’s voice and the huskiness, as if her ma was holding back a flood of tears. Her mother pulled her in close, then, crushing her in a great hug.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said again.

  Cadayle didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to her ma, for she did not know that her mother had once been treated more horribly than she could ever imagine. She didn’t know that her mother had once been thrown into a sack with a poisonous viper, then hung up by her wrists in the wilderness and left to die.

  Only the generosity of strangers had saved her.

  “Come inside and be quick about it,” Garibond said to Bransen when the boy at last returned to the homestead. Garibond put his hand on the boy’s back and ushered him along more quickly, the older man’s gaze darting about the tree line surrounding his small fields.

  Bernivvigar was out there, Garibond knew, watching Bransen with sudden interest. Garibond wasn’t surprised by that, other than the fact that it had taken the old and vicious Samhaist this long to take note of the crippled youngster. The Samhaists were not typically kind to such “inferior” people, for theirs was a brutal religion, ever searching for sacrifices to give their scowling gods, the dreaded Ancient Ones that haunted Honce. Like the second-born twin, cripples were considered appropriate gifts.

  And now, Garibond suspected, Bernivvigar was watching Bransen.

  Garibond watched the boy stagger across the room, pivot on one foot, and fall into a seat. His lip was blue and swollen on one side, and it looked as if he had chipped a tooth.

  Garibond winced and silently berated himself for allowing Bransen to go into town that day. He had been against it, but Bransen, with his typical pigheadedness, had argued and argued. The boy was determined to live a normal life, but it would never be, Garibond knew. The folk of Pryd, the folk of any holding in all Honce, would never allow it.

  The weary man thought back to the day of Bransen’s birth, when SenWi had given her life to save him. She had thought it a generous deed, no doubt, but Garibond had to wonder. Many times during those early years when the extent of Bransen’s infirmities had become clear, Garibond had entertained the thought of putting a pillow over Bransen’s face and peacefully ushering him into the quiet realm of death.

  It broke his heart to watch B
ransen staggering around, to hear the insults hurled his way, to see the other boys mocking him with their “stork walks” behind him. It broke his heart to see the boy covered in blood day after day, whether from the bullying blows or from his own clumsiness. Would Bransen be better off dead?

  The question remained inescapable for Garibond, but, in truth, it was already answered, and definitively. SenWi had answered it, with finality, when she had thrown her life force into the dying infant; and it was not in Garibond’s province to go against that choice she had made.

  He wanted only to protect the boy.

  Bransen managed a crooked smile and said, “C-c-c-ca-ca-ca-Cadayle.”

  “Aye, boy,” Garibond replied. “You lie down and rest and think of your little friend.” He watched as Bransen settled down on his cot and on his pillow, which was formed of a folded and rolled silk suit of black clothing. In looking at that pillow, Garibond was reminded of how special, how magical, SenWi had been, and how magnificent were the works of the Jhesta Tu, for the pants and shirt and the soft, flexible shoes hadn’t worn out in the least over the last decade, and Bransen’s spittle and snot seemed to gain no hold on the soft and smooth material.

  Garibond thought of the Book of Jhest and the sword of SenWi, both of which, like Bransen, had been entrusted to his care. He would protect them, as he protected the boy.

  He looked at the frail figure lying across from him and wondered how in the world he could do that. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the terrible fate that awaited Bransen if he should die before the boy. Or if wretched old Bernivvigar got his filthy nails on him.

  The thought of the Samhaist had Garibond glancing back over his shoulder and out the door, which he quickly closed.

  And barred.

  16

  Hierarchy

  “What can you do for me?” Every word came out on a gasp of air, as old Laird Pryd lay on his bed, propped on a mound of pillows. Lying flat, the laird could not even draw breath; and even with the pillows, every inhalation was forced.