The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  “True enough,” Prydae admitted.

  “You will find the opportunity to bloody the silver blade of your sword, I suspect and fear. Battles rage across the width and breadth of Honce.” Bannagran needed yet another drink as he considered the truth of his words. All the land was in chaos. The roads had been built with the promise of greater trade and a greater ability to rid the land of the powries and the goblins. And at first, that promise had been realized, with the powries thinned to irrelevance and pushed to the sea, and the goblins all but eradicated throughout the land east of the Masur Delaval and south of the great Gulf of Corona.

  But now the holdings were warring. Now Delaval and Ethelbert fought for dominance on a wide scale, while minor holdings battled over small pieces of valuable land. Even the powries had returned, or were beginning to, as reports of bloody cap murders seemed to increase daily throughout the land.

  Bannagran drained his goblet. He didn’t mind battle, didn’t mind killing powries or slaughtering goblins.

  But killing other men was something quite different, something that left him sour and empty.

  25

  Straining the Quality of Mercy

  It was a day like any other day. The same routines and chores, the same time for waking and eating and collecting the refuse from the previous night. A light rain fell through the humid early summer air, making the dirt clump about Bransen’s sandaled feet as he staggered out from Chapel Pryd toward the river, a chamber pot in each hand.

  He hardly felt the weight of the two buckets, though they were nearly full, for his grip had grown strong and sure. That much of his muscles, Bransen could control. As for the rest, he stumbled and had to realign himself continually after each awkward step, certainly living up to his nickname. It had been a rainy spring, and so Bransen was used to the muddy ground, and he was managing well enough, though with great concentration, his eyes set straight ahead, his every thought locked on his forward movement.

  He didn’t notice a figure move silently up beside him, or the foot that went out in front of him.

  Bransen tripped and stumbled; the chamber pots at his side sloshed and splashed him. He caught himself and would not have gone down, but the foot kicked hard against the back of his locked knee, buckling it.

  He heard the laughter as he crashed to the ground, the contents of the pots splashing over him, mixing with the mud on his face and sliding up his nostrils.

  Bransen fumbled and finally managed to come up to one elbow and lift his head, spitting with each movement. Then he froze, seeing four legs—strong legs, the legs of young men—planted before him.

  “Aye, Stork, you fell down hard that time,” came a voice that Bransen knew, a taunting voice he had heard on many occasions for more than ten years: that of Tarkus Breen, who had been away at the war, so Bransen had thought. Now he was back, apparently. As Tarkus finished, he stamped his foot down hard, spraying Bransen’s face with muddy water.

  “Take care, Tarkus,” said his companion—Hegemon Noylan, Bransen knew. “You’ll bury Stork where he lies and only make it all stink worse.”

  “Bah, all right, then,” Tarkus conceded. “I’ll pick him up.” The strong young warrior reached down, grabbed Bransen by the front of his tunic, and hoisted him to his feet. But then he shoved Bransen hard as he offered a phoney “oops!” and the poor helpless young man stumbled back and fell in a painfully twisted manner.

  He had barely hit the ground when a boot came in hard against his back, jolting him.

  “Hey, you nearly tripped me with the dolt,” said the third of the group, a younger boy of about fifteen, Hegemon’s little brother Rulhio. He gave another kick, this one more vicious, that set off an explosion of pain in Bransen’s shoulder. Bransen grabbed at the wound and tried to cover up, but his inability to curl onto his belly made him roll back before Rulhio in a vulnerable position.

  Bransen tried to scream as a muddy foot lifted over his face, ready to stamp him flat. The poor young man couldn’t even manage to cry out properly, his face twisting and his voice gurgling. He couldn’t even manage to bring his arm back across to block the blow. A moment later, he tasted blood with the mud—his blood, running from his nose.

  Then he was up again, suddenly, hoisted by Tarkus.

  “Aw, you hurt him,” Tarkus said, and he threw Bransen forward.

  Rulhio caught him roughly, turned him, and shoved him to the waiting grasp of Hegemon.

  “Well, I don’t want the wretched thing!” Hegemon proclaimed, and he sent Bransen hard at Tarkus.

  And so it went, around the triangle of bullies, the three of them taunting, pinching and punching, and throwing him in turn. Bransen couldn’t begin to put his feet beneath him, couldn’t even twist his mouth to shout a protest. On one throw, he tripped as he started ahead toward Tarkus, and he toppled forward, crashing hard against Tarkus’s waist and knocking Tarkus off balance so that he followed Bransen to the muddy ground.

  Of course, though that made the other two howl with laughter, it infuriated Tarkus, and he punched Bransen even harder in the face, then hauled him back up. Before Bransen realized that he was standing again, Tarkus slapped one hand between his legs and grabbed him by the front of his tunic with the other. A twist and heave had Bransen horizontal and in the air, Tarkus lifting the thin little man right over his head. With Bransen up high, the powerful Tarkus began to turn.

  Only then did Bransen realize that the commotion had brought a crowd of onlookers—men, women, and children.

  Tarkus stopped short, then threw Bransen down. He landed on his back, dazed and out of breath. He heard the crowd, and it brought an ache to his heart that far exceeded any of the pain the three bullies had caused him. For most were laughing, while one or two expressed their sympathy for “the ugly little creature,” mostly in the form of whispers along the lines of, “It’s a pity that such a beast should have survived birth.”

  Tarkus’s foot stamped on Bransen’s stomach, and Bransen jolted into a curled-up position.

  “Hey, we’re not done with you!” Tarkus said, and he grabbed Bransen again and pulled him to his feet, violently shaking him.

  Crying, bleeding from his nose and gums, Bransen offered no resistance as Tarkus wound up to pound him some more.

  “Stop it!” came a cry. “You leave him be!”

  Before Bransen could register the identity of the speaker, the distant familiarity of the female voice, a woman crashed hard into him and Tarkus. Bransen slipped and would have fallen, but Tarkus held his ground and held Bransen upright; and the free hand that was about to launch a heavy punch at Bransen instead shoved the woman back.

  Bransen tried to cry out, “Cadayle!” but only managed something that sounded more like “Cc…c…ca-daaaa!”

  Cadayle pulled herself up from the mud and came right back in—or tried to before Hegemon and Rulhio intercepted her and held her off.

  “You leave him be!” she continued to shout. “He’s done nothing to you! He’s just a—” She stopped short, and Bransen saw that something had caught her attention and had caught the notice of both men holding her. He followed her gaze back to Tarkus and saw him looking back over his shoulder. And Bransen realized that the crowd had gone silent.

  When Bransen finally managed to turn his head to see what the others were looking at, he understood, for there stood Bernivvigar.

  The Samhaist towered over Tarkus and all the others, making them all seem insignificant. He stared hard at Bransen mostly, and there was no mercy in his awful glower.

  Bernivvigar curled up his withered old lips and chuckled menacingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Bransen noticed the transfixed expressions on the faces of the three bullies and noted that Cadayle had apparently shaken off the trance. She twisted suddenly, pulling free of Hegemon. Her arm came forward suddenly, slapping Tarkus across the face.

  That brought the three to action. Rulhio moved quickly to grab the young woman. Tarkus Breen reacted even more directly, stepping forward a
nd punching Cadayle square in the chest. She tumbled backward and would have fallen had not the other two regained solid grips upon her.

  “Oh, but you’re to pay dearly for that, witch,” Tarkus remarked.

  A moment of clarity, in the form of outrage, surged through Bransen, and he cried, “No!” and lashed out with both arms, flailing away. He heard the laughter erupt all around, even from Bernivvigar, but that didn’t slow him. He felt Tarkus’s grip tighten on the front of his tunic and knew the man was regaining his composure and balance, but that didn’t stop him.

  But then his face exploded in pain, spraying blood, again and again as Tarkus pumped his free arm. Cadayle screamed; many in the crowd gasped, while others laughed; and Tarkus growled like some rabid animal.

  Bransen’s senses were fast deserting him under that barrage, but he did hear a distant shout of protest and then a sharp and thunderous report, as if from a thunder bolt.

  People stumbled and people screamed, and Tarkus stopped punching.

  “Let him go!” cried Master Bathelais, and he extended his hand and opened it, showing the gray graphite stones, crackling with power.

  When Tarkus didn’t immediately respond, Bathelais dropped his arm and fired another lightning blast into the ground, jolting them all.

  “I said let him go, and I warn you that I will not offer any more warning blasts.” Other monks scrambled behind Master Bathelais, several of them, including Brother Reandu, showing gemstones of their own.

  Tarkus Breen eyed Bathelais defiantly, but he did release Bransen, giving him a shove that had him tumbling to the ground.

  “You protect this wretched creature,” Tarkus shouted loudly enough for all to hear, and he gave a derisive snort.

  “We are measured by the welfare of the least among us, not the strongest,” Master Bathelais said.

  From the side, old Bernivvigar laughed.

  So did many others.

  Bransen saw that Master Bathelais was not amused, and when the master’s gaze locked with his own for just a moment, he saw little true compassion there. In fact—and it hit Bransen hard—even Tarkus Breen had not looked at him with as much hate as Bathelais did now.

  Bransen didn’t dwell on it, though, as he tried to pull himself back up, especially when he heard Tarkus say to Cadayle as he walked by her, “This is not over, whore. I know where you live.”

  Cadayle spat at him, and she rushed to Bransen, helping him to his feet. She began brushing him off, to the catcalls of the crowd and in the face of the obvious disdain of Bernivvigar.

  “Get back from him,” came an unexpected assault from an unlikely source. Both Cadayle and Bransen looked at the approaching Master Bathelais. “Shoo, girl,” Bathelais fumed. “You have no place here.”

  “B-b-but,” Bransen started.

  “Shut your mouth,” the master commanded, and he grabbed Bransen by the shoulder and pulled him away from Cadayle, shoving him into the arms of the waiting Brother Reandu.

  “Easy, Bransen,” Reandu reassured him. “It’s over now.”

  Bransen managed to turn to face Cadayle, and she smiled at him. Then she motioned to indicate that Bransen should go along with the monks.

  “B-b-b…” Bransen stammered, trying to point out Tarkus and the threat to Cadayle. “B-b…” he stuttered, spittle flying everywhere.

  “Oh, be silent,” Master Bathelais scolded as he walked past, and then he added to Reandu, “Get him inside before I lose my compassionate humor and give him to the anger of the crowd.”

  Reandu kept reassuring Bransen and led him off toward the chapel.

  Clearly, Master Bathelais was not pleased. Bransen heard him shouting long before he neared the room to which he had been summoned by Brother Reandu; and as he approached, the master’s words became clearer.

  “So now we are using gemstones to threaten the populace away from this…this…this abomination?”

  “Master, we are brothers of Blessed Abelle. Blessed because of our capacity for compassion,” Brother Reandu countered. “When we took him in, we discussed this very matter.”

  “We took him in to secure the sword, that we might strengthen our position with Laird Prydae,” Bathelais corrected. “Never forget that.”

  Bransen froze in place and found his breathing hard to come by. The sword? His mother’s sword?

  “He is our charge,” said Reandu.

  “Then keep him inside from this day forth. Have him collect the pots and put them out by the wall, where a younger brother can take them to the river.”

  “Do you justify the actions of the three ruffians?”

  “Can you blame them?” Bathelais argued. “In these times? They go off and fight and die, while he stays here and—and what, Brother Reandu? While he stays here and eats the food for which others toil in the fields or hunt in the forest?”

  “Master!”

  The room went quiet for a moment, and Bransen dared to peek in. Bathelais stood there, before one of two chairs set in front of a desk. His eyes were closed, and he finally seemed to settle down with a series of deep breaths, his large chest heaving.

  “Once, I vowed never to use the magic of a gemstone in anger, unless it was against a powrie or goblin,” Bathelais said.

  “You hurt no one.”

  “But I scared them. I scared them all.” He gave a little snort. “That has always been the difference between us of the Church of Blessed Abelle and Bernivvigar and the Samhaists. They held power through fear, but we…” He gave another disdainful snort and shook his head. “I believe now that when it comes down to the moment of crisis, our two religions are not so different.”

  Brother Reandu stiffened defiantly in his chair. “I refuse to believe that.”

  Bathelais snorted yet again. “Keep the pitiful creature inside,” he said again, and he turned and walked away, heading for the room’s other door.

  Bransen waited for some time before staggering into the room.

  Brother Reandu smiled widely as soon as he saw the young man.

  “Come along,” the monk said cheerfully and he moved to a small desk and brought forth a pouch. He dumped its contents, a cache of various gemstones, onto the desktop and produced a gray hematite. “Let me tend the wound that young man gave you.”

  Bransen moved over and managed, with Reandu’s help, to get into the chair opposite. Reandu cupped Bransen’s chin in his hand and tilted his head back.

  “He hit you hard, didn’t he?”

  Bransen wanted to say that he didn’t care, but he grunted. Too many thoughts swirled in his head for him to even begin to sort them out at that time. He was angry at the bullies and deathly afraid for Cadayle. He was terrified of Bernivvigar and very confused about the words of Master Bathelais and his simmering anger, apparently directed at him.

  It was all too much, and it was all that Bransen could do to hold back his tears.

  Then he jumped in pain as Brother Reandu touched his nose.

  “Ah yes, he hit you hard,” Reandu said, and he gave a comforting laugh. “This will not hurt you,” he promised as he brought the soul stone up to Bransen’s face.

  Bransen instinctively pulled back as Reandu began to chant, putting himself in a state of focus and meditation as he gently brought the stone against the other’s broken nose. Bransen’s slight discomfort from the pressure of the stone lasted only a moment and was replaced by a warm feeling spreading through his nose and face. He felt the healing powers of gemstone magic for the first time, and he closed his eyes and basked in it.

  And something wholly unexpected happened. Bransen saw his line of chi react to the soul stone, just in the upper areas of his body. He pictured it clearly, a lightning line of crackling energy suddenly coalescing and aligning to the call of the gemstone!

  Bransen’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yes, it does feel good, doesn’t it?” Reandu asked.

  The moment passed quickly—too quickly—and Bransen slumped back.

  “There, done alr
eady,” said Reandu. “That feels better now, does it not?”

  Bransen gave a head-lolling nod.

  He was too surprised to begin to elaborate.

  26

  Paralysis of Another Sort

  When the trapdoor slammed shut, its reverberations felt to Bransen as if someone had driven a stake right through his chest. He sat in the near darkness of his barren and cold room, the light of a single candle the only barrier between him and a blackness so profound that he could not see his own hand if he waved it an inch in front of his face.

  He was in emotional tumult, his thoughts flying from Tarkus Breen to Cadayle. Cadayle! Bransen could hardly believe that she had arrived in his moment of need. He hadn’t seen her in years, and there she was, right when he most needed her, just as she had so often been before Bransen had come to Chapel Pryd. And as if all that turmoil and confusion, elation and fear weren’t enough, Bransen saw the scowl of Bernivvigar and the trembling rage of Master Bathelais.

  And one more thing swirled through his roiling emotions: the feel of the touch of hematite.

  In his deepest dreams, in his moments of the purest concentration over the Book of Jhest, Bransen had not imagined anything as crystalline as the sensation that gemstone had provided.

  Now he had to consider the hematite in a different light, and for a different purpose. He had tried to warn Brother Reandu that Cadayle was in danger. He had heard Tarkus Breen’s whispered threat. But he hadn’t succeeded and Reandu had merely reassured him that everything was all right, that bluster was just that and that the boys were “feisty”—yes, that was the word Reandu had used several times to describe the bullies—but were not criminals.

  Bransen knew better. He had seen the look in Tarkus Breen’s eyes. He had heard the hateful tone of Breen’s voice. All that led him to the inescapable conclusion that Cadayle was in danger.