The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  “No! No!” the man begged, and he began to cry. “Please do not kill me. A wife I have, and children. Please, I beg of you!”

  The words, so full of sincerity and terror, hit the Highwayman and reminded him that these men, these soldiers, even the tax collectors, were more than a part of the oppression that weighed upon the people of Pryd. They were individuals, real people with real lives and families and concerns.

  But those concerns found no real hold on the Highwayman in that moment of outrage, overwhelmed by his fears for Cadayle and her mother and by his frustration at the loss of his beloved Garibond. He came forward suddenly and forcefully, bowling the soldier over onto his back and setting his sword once more at the man’s throat.

  “Your family will bring your body to the brothers of Abelle to be put cold in the ground or to the Samhaists for burning,” he warned. “I’ll not ask again.”

  “They took her and her mother,” the soldier gasped. “I know not where they took the girl, but the mother was given to Bernivvigar. She will be tried and killed this night by the adder or the flames.”

  The Highwayman moved his sword tip back and stepped away from the man, his thoughts spinning. He glanced to the west, where the sun was almost gone, then back to the east and south, toward where he knew Bernivvigar held his audiences, his trials, and his murders.

  He looked back down at the soldier, still crying, still lying there with his hands up defensively.

  “Collect your companions and herd them into the house,” he instructed, and when the man didn’t immediately move, the Highwayman kicked him hard in the leg. “Now!”

  The man scrambled to his feet and did as he was bade, while Bransen moved fast to the soldier whose throat he had cut. He turned the man over, fearing the worst, and was relieved to see that he was not dead, and that the wound, though still bleeding, wasn’t gushing forth blood any longer. Still, it was a vicious gash, one that would need tending.

  Bransen brought one hand to the wound, the other to the soul stone set under his mask on his forehead. He recalled the lessons of the Book of Jhest, the Healing Hands, and fell even deeper into the swirl of the gray gemstone. He felt warmth in his hands and was amazed to see the wound sealing. He stopped short, though, for he found that the effort was taking from his own control, from the solid line of his own chi. A wave of dizziness came over him, followed by a profound weariness.

  But he shook it away, reminding himself of Cadayle. With a growl, he rose from the soldier and called to the man’s companion to hurry up.

  A short while later, the Highwayman ran off, leaving the four soldiers bound and gagged inside the house’s dark walls.

  36

  Buzzing in His Head

  The spinning thoughts followed Bransen away from Cadayle’s house, but as he met every different emotion with the reality that Cadayle and her mother were in trouble, anything other than simple rage was pushed away. Step by step, one thought by one, Bransen’s mind became focused, crystalline clear, sharpening and narrowing his vision so much that it seemed to him as if he were looking down a long and straight tunnel. The tumult within his mind became something more like an internal buzzing, as if the top end of his life’s line of energy were spitting jolts into his head.

  Moving with a singular focus and complete determination, the Highwayman increased his pace, running purposefully but without any clear idea where he was going. And then he arrived, his head thrumming, the edges of his vision limned in red. Hardly formulating any plans, hardly considering any move he might make, the Highwayman looked out through a tangle of twigs and logs at the front of a tall, flat stone.

  The buzzing did not relent.

  Sometime later, he felt the heat growing around him, but it was as if the flames were not in proximity to him, but were distant. Without any conscious decision, the Highwayman’s mind went to the drawer in the desk in the room above his hole. His fingers began to wriggle as if he were rolling a small stone in his palm, but he wasn’t even aware of the movement. He felt the power of the gemstone as if he were holding a serpentine in his hand, though of course he was not. But somewhere within the buzz of his mind, the lessons of the Book of Jhest resonated, showing him the way to the same energy the magical stone provided.

  And he needed it, though he wasn’t even aware of the flames leaping all around him, devouring the twigs and logs. He sat there and stared out at the Stone of Judgment, peering around the yellow sheets of fire that flared barely inches from his face.

  He knew the time drew near. He could hear the voices of people gathering around the bonfire, could see flashes of movement through the red shield at the edges of his vision. But they didn’t matter. All that mattered was the stone before him and the man he knew would soon appear atop it.

  The sight of the great bonfire roaring to life elicited horrible memories in poor Callen, a clear reminder of that night so long ago, a night that she had hoped she would never, ever have to recall. The crowd was comprised of different people but it all seemed the same to Callen, the jibes, the spit, the almost gleeful shouts.

  As if in a dream, she allowed the guards to shove her out to a spot halfway between the fire and the large, flat stone. Bernivvigar’s stone.

  The hoots behind her told her that the snake handler had arrived with the sack and the snake, and Callen felt her knees go weak. Darkness filled her thoughts, memories of the confining sack, and the slithering serpent crawling over her, sharp fangs hooking into her tender flesh and pumping in their deadly, burning poison.

  With a growl of defiance, Callen dismissed those recollections and divorced herself from her terror. This was not about her; she was not important. And so she would die this night, and for a crime that she had committed two decades before, a crime of passion and not cruelty, a misjudgment of her heart and nothing of malice.

  But so be it, because this wasn’t about her.

  This was about her poor daughter. Nothing else mattered to Callen. Not her pain, not the viper that would await her in the sack, not her own death.

  Were her previous crimes now being visited upon Cadayle? Callen knew that her daughter had played a dangerous game and had, in fact, brought this tragedy upon them both. But Callen couldn’t so easily dismiss her own guilt. Had she passed more than her appearance to her daughter? Was there something in them that allowed for such mistakes of the heart? The irony of it all wasn’t lost on Callen, because, indeed, hadn’t Cadayle’s foolishness with this outlaw Highwayman been much the same thing as Callen’s behavior when she had cuckolded her husband?

  Strangely, a wistful smile made its way onto her face as she considered that long-ago encounter. She had been given in marriage to a man she did not love and had been offered no say in the matter. That was often the way of things in Pryd, in all Honce, where practicality almost always overruled love. Her affair had not worked out well for her, or for her lover, but did she really feel that it had been an error? That affair had produced Cadayle, the beauty of her life. How could she consider that a mistake?

  The wistful smile disappeared in the blink of an eye. Cadayle, the beauty of her life, was in trouble, likely to be executed, and there was nothing, nothing, that Callen could do about it. Cadayle had allowed her heart to lead her into a place of beauty, perhaps, into the warmth of love and the tingling expectation of merely seeing the Highwayman. But it had also led her into danger, a deep and deadly hole from which there seemed no escape.

  Callen didn’t know who to blame; Callen didn’t care about blame. All that mattered was that she was never going to see her Cadayle again and that her daughter, her beautiful child, was in danger.

  And there was nothing she could do.

  Her contemplations fell away as a tall and straight figure walked out to the edge of the flat rock, towering over the gathering, seeming identical to the man he had been twenty years before and certainly with as much, and more, power than he had then commanded. At his appearance, the crowd fell into a fearful silence.

 
Bernivvigar spent a moment surveying them, his cold gaze freezing with fear any it fell upon. He nodded to the side, and she heard the scramble as men behind her began to ready the sack and the viper.

  “Callen Duwornay,” the old wretch began, not a quiver in his powerful voice, “we gather to execute the sentence imposed two decades ago. You did not admit your guilt then. You were given your chance to speak, though you said nothing. Now, we will not ask you again. You are doomed by your harlotry, and may the Ancient Ones forgive us all for delaying their proper justice and the gift of your corpse.”

  He snapped a wave in her direction, and the men flanking her yanked her back so forcefully that they pulled her from her feet.

  But they stopped abruptly, and Callen followed their looks to Bernivvigar; and then, with them and with all the others, she followed Bernivvigar’s gaze to the bonfire, rustling and shaking and taking on a life of its own.

  Callen’s eyes widened in shock as she saw the dark form step forth. Surely the old Samhaist had summoned a demon! One of the dreaded Ancient Ones had come to Honce to take her body away!

  He saw the tall form of the old Samhaist but only in a strange silhouette, for sheets of fire rose up before his eyes. Even with his understanding and mimicry of the powers of the magical serpentine stone, Bransen realized that he could not remain within the inferno. If his concentration faltered for just an instant, the fires would set his hair and clothing ablaze and consume him.

  But he did not falter. He thought of nothing but Cadayle, conjuring an image of her at the mercy of Laird Prydae. The buzzing in his head didn’t lessen—quite the opposite—and even with the fiery yellow glow before his eyes, there remained that red haze at the sides of his vision, focusing him, directing the course of his rage.

  That focus now was the solitary figure before him. Bransen stood up and the pile trembled, fiery branches falling down before him.

  He thought of Garibond and the hideous wound inflicted on him by Bernivvigar, and the buzzing in his head intensified even more, like an angry bee trapped within him, prodding him with its sound and its stinger. Bransen’s breath came in sudden gasps; he felt as if he would scream. His lungs burned as if they were on fire, as indeed he knew that they soon would be!

  But he found his focus again, and he forced himself forward through the fire, ignoring the burning branches, ignoring the painful licks of flame. None of it mattered. None of his discomfort, his pain, his potential death mattered. All that mattered was that figure, now the focus of his ire, the symbol of all the injustices and all the hatred, of all the bullying and all the torture.

  There he stood before Bransen, high on his rock.

  Bransen crashed through the side of the bonfire. He heard the screams all around him; out of the corner of his left eye he saw Callen gasp and fall back, along with the guards supporting her.

  But he strode forward, clearing the edge of the bonfire, stepping into the open in all his Highwayman glory right before Bernivvigar the Samhaist, right before the gasps and wide eyes of all the gathering.

  He heard them crying out and whispering, “Highwayman.”

  They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except that one figure.

  “You dare interrupt this sacred ceremony?” old Bernivvigar roared down from on high. “You dare?”

  Bransen drew the sword from his rope belt, but even without the weapon, the murderous intent was very clear in his eyes.

  He strode toward the rock, and Bernivvigar surprised him, for the old man did not back away, did not show fear.

  “To challenge me is to challenge the Ancient Ones!” he proclaimed, and he lifted his skinny arms up before him and uttered a quick incantation, the likes of which Bransen had never before heard. Bernivvigar’s voice sounded like guttural grunting, but in a rhythm, as if someone were rolling stones down a jagged rocky slope in perfect timing.

  Bransen didn’t care. He drove forward, thinking to run up to the base of the stone and leap atop it, cutting the old wretch down in a single movement.

  But he wasn’t running fast, was suddenly barely moving, as if he were wading through deep mud. He glanced down at his feet, to see the grass itself reaching over his soft black shoes, grasping at him, knotting above the top of his feet. With a determined tug, Bransen tore one foot free, then the other. He swung his sword down in frustration, slicing a line in the grass, but any freedom he found was temporary as Bernivvigar’s weeds and grass slapped and grabbed at him.

  And the man was still chanting, and was no longer before him, Bransen realized. He followed the voice to the side and saw that Bernivvigar was standing on the grass not too far away, chanting and leering at him crazily, hungrily.

  “Too long has the wrath of the Ancient Ones been bound inside the earth!” Bernivvigar cried; all about him, the people fell back in fear, for his voice was no longer that of a man, no longer that of a mortal creature. Somehow, Bernivvigar had gone beyond the bounds of his corporeal body, beyond the reach of the lesser beings about him.

  Bransen, too, nearly swooned under the power of that voice.

  “Feel the fires of the Ancient Ones!” Bernivvigar proclaimed, and he thrust both his hands out before him, his old, gnarled, and twisted fingers sparking and trailing wisps of smoke.

  Bransen braced himself, falling once more into his concentration to deny the expected fires. But Bernivvigar was not aiming his strange magic Bransen’s way, at least not directly. The ground beneath the Highwayman’s feet began to slide and churn, and Bransen looked down in terror, noting that what had seemed ordinary grass was now smoldering with swirling red lava!

  He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know how to react. He scanned his memory of the Book of Jhest, looking for some clue, some hint as to what this old wretch was doing to him.

  And then he heard a cry, sharp and shrill and full of a primal, tearing energy. His gaze slipped to Callen, who was on the ground on her back, the deadly viper coiled and ready to strike, just inches from her face.

  Bransen wanted to call out to her, to tell her not to move. He wanted to leap before her, to take the strike if necessary, for he believed that with his training, he could withstand a snake’s poison.

  But the buzzing screamed in his head, a nest of bees, it now seemed. He knew that his shoes were smoking, knew that his feet were blistering, but he felt no pain: not even the bite of Bernivvigar’s molten fires could penetrate the wall of his rage.

  Without thinking, Bransen jerked his arm up and then snapped it forward, throwing his sword as if it were a spear.

  He heard Bernivvigar’s gasp, and the incantation stopped, before he registered that his sword had struck right through the Samhaist’s chest.

  Bernivvigar staggered backward, but did not fall to the ground. It hardly mattered to Bransen, for he charged at the man, in a great leap that brought him clear of the lava. His arms worked like the hooves of a charging horse, pumping and pounding, smashing Bernivvigar in the ribs, but strangely Bernivvigar was not grunting under the blows, and his skin seemed not to give at all beneath the weight of Bransen’s punches, nor did his old bones crack in protest.

  Bransen looked up to see Bernivvigar staring down at him and smiling, as if Bransen were but a child, an inconvenience. Bernivvigar lifted a hand and balled it tightly, and lightning-like energy crackled from his fist.

  Bransen slugged him hard in the jaw, snapping the old man’s head to the side. But Bernivvigar kept smiling and punched back. Though Bransen blocked the blow, he felt the jolt of energy surge through his body, stiffening him. Only his studies saved him, for he instinctively arched his body in just the right manner to serve as a conduit for the jolt, so that it ran down to the ground and left him relatively unscathed.

  He punched again, and Bernivvigar swung.

  Bransen ducked, leaning low, and with perfect balance, managed to kick his foot against the hilt of the sword protruding from Bernivvigar’s chest.

  A wince broke through Bernivvigar’s mask of calm and
confidence; and Bransen snapped off three quick kicks, all smacking the hilt and changing the angle of the blade.

  Now the Highwayman found his rhythm, coming forward suddenly and popping off a series of short punches at the Samhaist. None connected heavily, and none would have done much damage anyway. But that wasn’t the point.

  Bransen was setting his feet; balance was the measure, he knew.

  Bernivvigar swung again, and Bransen, knowing better than to block the enchanted fist, ducked. But even though the fist did not connect, it sent a jolt of lightning into him.

  But that didn’t knock the focused Bransen off balance, that didn’t diffuse the buzzing.

  He stepped sideways at Bernivvigar, grabbing the sword hilt, and accepted another powerful jolt and then another as he stepped away, turning his back as he tore his sword free.

  Bernivvigar cackled mockingly behind him, but Bransen didn’t hear it, didn’t hear anything but the anger in his head.

  Bransen started left, reversed the sword flow suddenly, and spun back right so quickly that Bernivvigar was still looking the other way when Bransen came whirling around, the sword high and horizontal, level with the old Samhaist’s neck.

  High into the air flew Bernivvigar’s head, still wearing a smile of calm confidence.

  Bransen was already moving the other way when the body crumpled behind him, when the head bounced down to the ground with a wet thump.

  He dropped his sword and slowed his movement as he approached Callen and the snake, motioning at her to keep still. The snake hadn’t struck yet, and it seemed as confused and overwhelmed as everyone else in the area—now far fewer people than when Bransen had emerged from the bonfire!

  The buzzing continued, but within it, Bransen found a place of calm as he slipped between Callen and the viper, moving low and staring the frightened snake in the eye.

  He moved his right hand across before him, and the snake’s head swayed in concert.