The Bear sotfk-4

by R. A. Salvatore

  "No."

  Reandu looked at him curiously.

  "Where is your proof, boy?" Bannagran demanded.

  "I didn't kill him. I was nowhere near Delaval City."

  "Who killed him?"

  "A woman-a woman from Behr."

  "On what proof?"

  "None but my word."

  Bannagran paused for a few heartbeats, looked at Bransen, then to Reandu. He turned to his guards. "Take him."

  "I came to speak with Master Reandu," Bransen said.

  "If he resists at all, kill him on the spot," Bannagran ordered.

  The soldiers fanned out around Bransen, iron swords in hand. They came at him with measured steps, each looking nervously to the man on his right and left, clearly intimidated, for some had witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman and all had certainly heard the many stories of Bransen's martial exploits. Each step seemed a bit shorter than the one previous.

  Bannagran growled, "Take him!" more ferociously. None of the soldiers needed a reminder of the power and severity of their laird. A soldier to Bransen's right lowered his shoulder behind his shield and rushed in suddenly, an obvious path and one that Bransen could have easily sidestepped.

  But he didn't. He turned back to look plaintively at Master Reandu. "I need to talk with you," he said right before the shield slammed against him and sent him flying. He would have tumbled to the ground, but a second shield-rushing soldier hit him hard before he fell, jolting him upright. The man drove ahead as his companion from the other side continued to advance, pinning Bransen between them.

  "With ease!" Master Reandu shouted. "He is not resisting!"

  But the soldiers, as if considering the apparent submissiveness to be a dangerous ruse, came on in full. Several sheathed their swords as they huddled in, freeing up fists covered in metal gauntlets so that they could launch heavy punches at Bransen.

  He curled up, protecting his most sensitive areas as the gang jostled him and slammed him, punched and kicked him.

  "Bannagran!" he heard Reandu yell as he was smashed to the ground, but the monk's voice already seemed far, far away. Bransen curled up tight on his side, and a barrage of kicks battered him to semiconsciousness. He felt himself tugged over to his stomach, his hands wrenched behind his back and bound at the wrists with heavy, coarse rope. From that rope a second rope was strung, this one wrapping about the front of his waist, holding his hands fast and tight against his back. His captors slid a long pole under his elbows and across his back.

  A man grabbed each end of the pole and roughly hoisted Bransen up from the ground. "Stand!" the guard leader called. Bransen stumbled to comply, but the man slugged him hard on the back of the head.

  By then a crowd had gathered outside of Chapel Pryd's gate, and they began wailing and calling out in protest at the treatment of the Highwayman, the man who had brought such hope and justice to them in times not so distant. More soldiers appeared, and Bannagran faced the peasants down with an awful stare.

  "Clear the way!" he ordered his soldiers and warned the peasants all at once. He turned to the crew, handling Bransen very roughly, punching him and tugging him, keeping him off balance as if they feared he would suddenly burst into motion and slay them all.

  "He is not resisting, Laird Bannagran!" Reandu pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. The soldiers dragged and carried Bransen away, past Bannagran, who fixed him with a hateful stare.

  Reandu rushed from the porch. "Don't kill the boy. He is just a boy," Reandu begged.

  Bannagran moved to intercept him. "He said he knows who killed Delaval," Bannagran replied. "That is his only possible salvation."

  "You will spare him?"

  "It's not my choice to make."

  "The people of Pryd will not forgive you, Laird Bannagran."

  Bannagran looked at him as if it were foolish for Reandu to even believe that Bannagran cared.

  But Reandu hit the laird with a different truth, one less easy to brush aside. "And you won't forgive yourself," he said.

  Bannagran blinked.

  "I will attend to him personally with a soul stone," Reandu offered.

  "Once he is secured, you will have your chance to heal the outlaw."

  Reandu seemed satisfied with that until Bannagran added, "The more you heal him, the more we can hurt him without killing him." The ferocious Laird of Pryd, the Bear of Honce, spat on the ground and turned away. As he neared the gate, many peasants still clustered before it, he barked, "Move aside!" How they scattered!

  Master Reandu stood on the chapel walkway, rubbing his face wearily and trying hard to keep his breathing steady. Several brothers crowded behind him, assaulting him with a barrage of questions about why Bransen had come or whether he would really be executed. Reandu didn't answer any of them but just looked toward Castle Pryd. The sounds of the crowd informed him of the moment when Bransen was dragged through the strong iron gates and to the dungeons soon after, Reandu knew.

  The cold and wet, filthy dungeons that smelled of death. I trust that you are comfortable," Bannagran said to Bransen, a ridiculous question. The gaolers at Castle Pryd were well prepared to handle this dangerous man. They had the Highwayman chained by his wrists and ankles, the top chains lifting him a couple of feet from the floor by his arms, the bottom set securing his feet with just enough give to allow the ruffians to bow Bransen at the waist, wrapping him about a central beam. In deference to the man's inexplicable physical abilities, the gaolers had added a devious twist to the harness by cutting a ridge into the center of the beam where his belly rested. Into that ridge they slid a sword blade, edge out, then adjusted the chains to pull Bransen snugly into the beam, the blade tightly secured against his belly. Any struggling, indeed, even if he relaxed his weight onto the beam, would surely eviscerate the miserable prisoner. Hanging there, arms and legs locked at a forward angle, Bransen could only gain relief by sucking in his gut and turning back his shoulders so that the bottom of his rib cage hooked the edge of the beam and supported much of his weight. He couldn't hold that stressful position for very long, however, and the mere act of hanging there pushed Bransen to his limits of emotional and physical discipline.

  The sun was nearing its high point in the day-lit world above, though Bransen was hardly aware of the time, when Bannagran at last entered the chamber. He walked around Bransen slowly, taking full measure. Bransen had been stripped to the waist. Bannagran nodded in apparent respect that the man had lasted this long without bloodying his belly.

  "Have I thanked you for your hospitality?" Bransen asked, though he could do no more than whisper without inflicting pain.

  "You appreciate your accommodations?"

  "Eating will be difficult, but I have found some sleep already," the impertinent Highwayman replied.

  Bannagran snorted and shook his head as he walked before the captive. He peered over the beam for a closer look at Bransen's midsection. "No blood yet," he said. "Impressive."

  "You could always walk behind me and pretend I am one of your barnyard lovers," said Bransen.

  Bannagran stared at him hatefully, then slapped him hard across the face. "This is no game, boy," he warned. "Your life's hanging by a rope."

  "A chain, actually. Two!"

  "And I hold the other end," Bannagran finished.

  "Then let it go and be done with me."

  "You pray that I'll make it that easy for you."

  "You assume that I anticipate justice or fairness. I have learned to expect differently from Laird Bannagran."

  The Bear slapped him again, a stinging blow that nearly pushed him onto the blade.

  "Why have you come back to Pryd?" Bannagran demanded. He paused and looked past Bransen to the cell door to ensure they were alone. "Why have you done this to me?"

  "To you?"

  "I warned you, publicly, that you could not return here until King Yeslnik determined your innocence," said Bannagran.

  "But you know I am innocent."

  "Th
at matters not at all!" Bannagran growled. "And you know it!"

  "But it should matter."

  Bannagran growled again.

  "And if it doesn't matter, then nothing does," Bransen went on. "Nothing. And nothing that you can do to me matters one bit."

  "Do not be too assured of that," Bannagran warned.

  Bransen stared at him in response, his eyes flaring with intensity. He exhaled and relaxed suddenly, allowing his weight to come forward onto his waist against the sword. A line of blood appeared on Bransen's naked belly almost immediately, the sharp blade digging in.

  But Bransen's expression didn't change; if he felt any pain at all, he didn't show it.

  "I am Jhesta Tu," he explained. "My mind and body are one. I can deny pain, however much you choose to inflict. You cannot hurt me, Bannagran. You can slay me, but you cannot hurt me. I'll not let you."

  "You are mad," Bannagran retorted, his voice full of revulsion. "Ever were you a strange creature."

  "I am the Stork, remember? My whole life has been spent in misery-or was, until I learned to dismiss the pain."

  "That easily?"

  "That easily."

  "If you wish to rethink that challenge, then do so now. For I will succeed in making you cry out for mercy, I warn."

  Bransen didn't blink.

  "Fool," said Bannagran. He moved over to the wall where a table was set with various torture implements. Reviewing them carefully, he lifted a long, serrated blade.

  "You know the truth of it," Bransen said. "You know that any torture you inflict upon me will harm you. Every cut to me will be a cut to Bannagran's soul."

  "You believe that I care at all for-"

  "Yes," Bransen interrupted. "What were your words when first you walked in here?"

  Bannagran closed his eyes and rolled the blade over in his hands. Then he looked at Bransen, and the young man knew, without doubt, that the game was over. Bannagran turned to him and lifted the blade and advanced-to kill him and be done with it and be done with him, once and for all.

  Bransen considered his options. He had already tested the strength of the chains and the fit about his wrists. If he was to resist and attempt an escape, the moment was upon him. But did he even really care enough to try?

  He grimaced away that ridiculous question with the image of Cadayle, pregnant Cadayle. The world might be worth nothing to him at that time, but Cadayle was worth everything.

  Before Bransen could begin his desperate move, though, a voice from the doorway behind him interrupted the scene.

  "Laird Bannagran, I beg!" said Master Reandu, his tone and his frantic, flailing arms full of horror.

  "It is not your begging I seek, Reandu!" Bannagran stared hatefully at Bransen.

  "What is this horror?" Reandu asked, coming around to better examine Bransen and the devious contraption that held him.

  "None of your affair," said Bannagran.

  "I protest."

  "Go back to your chapel."

  "No!"

  Bannagran looked at him threateningly.

  "Bannagran, laird, I beg of you. This man has done nothing to deserve-"

  "The same could be said of most men and women my age in all of Honce," Bransen interrupted. "Deserve?" he laughed. "Have you been to the south where all hint of society has been replaced by savagery? Where the weak are slaves to the strong, the women chattel to be taken by any man who so desires? Where every decency has been sublimated to every urge?" He laughed again. "Deserve? Do any of us deserve the hubris of Delaval, now the idiot Yeslnik, and of Ethelbert? Or do we all deserve it because it is naught but a sad joke?"

  "Bransen," Reandu scolded.

  "You really do not care, do you?" asked Bannagran. "Would you grin as you died if I cut open your throat now?" The Bear of Honce smiled wickedly as he asked the question, lifting the knife as he approached.

  Bransen smiled back and made no move to resist or protest at all.

  "Spare him," Reandu begged.

  "He must tell me everything he has learned," Bannagran demanded. "He has been to Ethelbert. He claims he knows who killed King Delaval. I will have every word."

  "And then you will spare him?"

  "If his words please me, perhaps," was all Bannagran would give. "But know that my patience is ended."

  "Your blade will do no more than free me," Bransen said.

  "Bransen!" Reandu scolded. "Tell him!"

  Bransen looked at him incredulously.

  "If you care not at all about anything as you claim, then what harm is there in telling Bannagran what he wishes to know?" Reandu reasoned. "What sense is there in offering your life? What are you protecting?"

  The words gave Bransen pause, reflected clearly on his face, so clearly, in fact, that Bannagran lowered his blade and waited. Bransen thought again of Cadayle. He could not throw away his responsibilities to her!

  "Laird Delaval was murdered by a woman," Bransen said. "Of Behr. She is Hou-lei and not Jhesta Tu."

  Reandu and Bannagran looked to each other in confusion.

  "Hou-lei, an older order than Jhesta Tu," Bransen explained. "With a philosophy that names a warrior as but an instrument, a mercenary. Her name is Affwin Wi. She leads a band of several followers. She broke her sword in King Delaval's chest and has claimed my sword as her own for replacement. If you fight her, Bannagran, she will kill you. So would Merwal Yahna, her escort, who is stronger but not as skilled."

  Clouds of doubt crossed Bannagran's strong features.

  "I have fought them both and have battled you more than once," Bransen said evenly. "Either would defeat you."

  "These are Ethelbert's assassins?" Reandu asked, trying desperately to keep the conversation moving forward.

  "Who came out of the city in the dark of night and turned back Prince Milwellis's army," Bransen said. Bannagran's eyes went wide, telling the young man that he had hit something important.

  "Only a handful, though, you say?" Bannagran asked.

  "One less, perhaps two less, by my hand," said Bransen.

  "Why would you fight them?" Bannagran asked suspiciously. "Have you thrown in with King Yeslnik?"

  "They disgust me," Bransen answered. "Ethelbert disgusts me. Yeslnik disgusts me, and you disgust me."

  "Bransen!" said Reandu.

  "You have ruined the world," Bransen continued, heedless of the frantic monk. "You trample children under your march and do not care. You have destroyed all expressions of civilized life in the south. You bring misery to every man and woman of Honce and care not at all."

  "Bransen, please," Reandu begged.

  Bransen didn't even glance at him, his steely gaze locked on the Laird of Pryd. "You ask me to fly a pennant from my sword tip. You, all of you, demand that I choose a side." He snorted derisively and did then look at Reandu. "When I was young and at Chapel Pryd, you might have asked me an equally relevant question, Master Reandu. You might have asked which chamber pot, which pail of shit and piss, I preferred: the one hanging from my right hand or the one hanging from my left."

  Reandu put his hand over his mouth and fell back a step, turning to Bannagran as if he expected the ferocious laird to kill Bransen then and there. To his surprise, though (and to Bransen's as well), the young man's vicious words seemed to have a calming effect on Bannagran and even backed him off a step or two.

  "So Bransen fights for no one except Bransen, then?" Bannagran asked.

  "Bransen chooses not to fight at all," Bransen replied. "But should he have to, then yes."

  "I will march to war soon," Bannagran said. "Bransen will march beside me."

  The Highwayman looked at him as if the statement were preposterous, as if the Bear had lost his mind.

  "Because if you do, I will ensure that you and your family will live in Pryd Town and live well. Callen Duwornay and her daughter will be welcomed back, and I will see to it that they are never in need again."

  "I am Jhesta Tu, not Hou-lei," Bransen replied. "I am no mercenary."
>
  "Why not?"

  Bannagran's simple question struck him hard.

  "You will be doing no more than emptying chamber pots by your own words," Bannagran continued.

  "Nay, to do as you ask would be putting my skills against simple peasants pressed to service, who do not deserve my wrath."

  But Bannagran was shaking his head. "Fight only this Affwin Wi creature, then," he said. "And her consort. Slay those who murdered King Delaval, and I am confident that King Yeslnik will forgive your every crime. He fears these assassins-it is why he fled the field before Ethelbert's gates. But now he is determined to return to the coastal city and be done with Ethelbert, and no doubt he will succeed. If in that process the Highwayman rids him of the assassins he most fears, then his gratitude will lead to pardon. And in return, I will let you and your family live in Pryd Town forevermore, as distinguished citizens in good standing. Choose your home among any standing, save Castle Pryd itself, and I will grant it."

  Bransen made no move to answer, and his visage did not soften.

  "Or, if you truly care not for anything," Bannagran added, "you can die here in this miserable dungeon." He seemed quite amused with his own cleverness as he continued, "Perhaps I will just let you starve and rot here in the mud, then leave you for the rats to devour. Or I'll have my most trusted guards drag your rotting body out into the woods, perhaps, to bury you where you'll never be found. Then I'll tell your lady that I know not what might have happened to you and let her live her life in misery, ever watching for your return."

  "You would do exactly that, wouldn't you?" Bransen said with contempt.

  "You claim that you do not care. But you know me, Highwayman, and you know that I care even less. I must go and face Ethelbert again. I plan to survive the journey, and if your blade helps me to do that then so be it. If you choose to be of no use to me, then you are of no use to me, and so I simply do not care for you."

  "Accept the deal, Bransen," Reandu whispered breathlessly. "By Blessed Abelle, man, I came here seeing no hope for you. And now there is opportunity and hope. Perhaps you will help facilitate the end of this wretched war at the same time."