"Beware your words of King Yeslnik," Bannagran warned.
"King Yeslnik," Ethelbert scoffed. "He is not prepared to lead a single small holding let alone the whole of Honce! Were he a farmer his crops would die and his chickens would starve. He could not throw a fishing line into the Mirianic without falling in behind it!"
Bannagran didn't seem to appreciate the mirth, for a smile did not crease his face. He stared hard at Laird Ethelbert, his expression unreadable.
"It is more than a matter of competence," Cormack interjected, stepping up beside Ethelbert. "It is a question of judgment and morality. Dame Gwydre has chosen to side with-"
"Do you speak for Dame Gwydre?" Bannagran asked.
"I do."
"And for Father Artolivan?"
"He does," Father Destros called from behind.
"I do," Laird Ethelbert corrected.
"We do," was all that Cormack would concede. He and Ethelbert exchanged a quick, but sharp, stare before Cormack stubbornly pressed forward. "It was not Dame Gwydre's intent to take sides in this conflict," Cormack explained. "She sailed south to deliver news of the defeat of Ancient Badden in Vanguard and the ascendance of the Order of Blessed Abelle in those northern reaches. She came to see if she could mediate in this terrible war, to help heal the wounds of Honce."
"A wiser course than the one you have ultimately chosen," Bannagran assured the former monk.
"It was the immorality of Yesl… King Yeslnik's proclamation," Cormack explained. "The dactyl-inspired demand that those prisoners who had served Laird Ethelbert be murdered. That foul edict demanded our course and the decision of Father Artolivan."
Bransen had stopped watching his friend Cormack, instead turning his eye to regard Reandu. The master didn't blink through Cormack's explanation, licking his lips as Cormack recounted the meetings that had brought Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to the conclusion that the notion of Yeslnik, this young man with such careless disregard for the lives of others, becoming King of Honce was simply unacceptable.
Master Reandu wanted to cheer Cormack's bold stand, Bransen realized, and indeed he thought that Reandu might not be able to contain himself and might do just that! The implications of that obvious truth had the Highwayman screwing up his face with confusion.
"It was not only an affront to those men who had served my army," Ethelbert added, "but one to your own soldiers."
Bannagran didn't look very convinced.
"Would your warriors not face more difficult fights if they marched against an enemy who knew that to surrender was to be put to the sword?" Ethelbert asked. "Is not the offering of mercy and safe return a valuable parlay position to a general who has won the field and does not wish to inflict wholesale slaughter upon his enemy?"
"The winds have turned against Yeslnik," Cormack insisted. "All of Vanguard and the brothers of Abelle have thrown in with Laird Ethelbert."
"All of Vanguard?" Bannagran replied with a mocking chuckle. "Palmaristown alone puts more men on the field than your Dame Gwydre can manage, and not all of the brothers have run to the call of the traitor, Father Artolivan." As he finished, Bannagran turned to regard Reandu, who withered under the laird's imposing stare.
"Father Artolivan answers to a higher king than any mere mortal man," said Cormack.
"Does he indeed?" asked Bannagran. "Would Ancient Badden's deluded minions not say the same of him?"
That put Cormack back on his heels, Bransen noted, but the resourceful former monk squared his shoulders and insisted, "It is for the good of Honce, for the good of the common folk of Honce, that Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan have chosen to oppose Yeslnik."
"They will be buried side by side, then," came Bannagran's sarcastic reply.
"And not for any personal gain," Cormack managed to continue. "Laird Bannagran, I beseech you…"
But the Bear of Honce was laughing at him, so Cormack relented. "It is all for personal gain whether for Dame Gwydre or Laird Ethelbert or King Yeslnik," Bannagran admitted. "Whether for Father Artolivan or Father De Guilbe or Master Reandu there. For all of us, you fool. Spare me your words of greater imperative or nobler cause. A man thrusts his spear into the gut of another for the cause of personal gain and not out of nobility. A laird seeks alliance for personal gain or begins a war to expand his holding. No doubt your Dame Gwydre eyes a foothold on the civilized lands in recompense for her token support of Laird Ethelbert. She will soon come to regret that choice of ally, though." He turned and glanced back to the west. "You have no doubt heard of the scope of my force, and it is but one of King Yeslnik's three great armies. You are sorely outnumbered, outarmed, and outarmored."
"But if you were to join with us…" Cormack replied when all recognized that Laird Ethelbert, staring hard at Bannagran, was not about to say anything at that dangerous point.
"The outcome of the fight would be less assured?" Bannagran asked with a laugh.
"For the good of the common folk of Honce," said Cormack.
"For many more years of war, you mean," said Bannagran. "And for the same outcome for those who survive the march of armies, whether Ethelbert or Yeslnik claimed the throne."
Laird Ethelbert stiffened at that, a remark he clearly considered an insult, but again it was Cormack who spoke up.
"It will be neither!"
The force of his declaration did give Bannagran pause, after which he asked, showing only minimal intrigue, "Do tell."
"When the war is won, Honce will have no king, but a queen."
"A queen? Your Dame Gwydre?"
Cormack didn't blink, his shoulders straight and square, his jaw strong.
"Some huntress from the wilds of Vanguard will conquer Honce?" Bannagran asked, his voice filling with mocking incredulity. He turned to Ethelbert. "And you would agree with this?"
Ethelbert sputtered a bit, shaking his head, and started to explain that the details had not yet been agreed upon, but Bannagran's laughter had him too flustered to make any point.
"How desperate must you be, Laird Ethelbert," the Bear of Honce said. "It pains me to witness you as a broken man. You, who were once a leader among men, and for so long!" He shook his head and laughed again. "I will honor your flag of truce, though I would be doing you a favor to take your head and be done with this foolishness here and now."
Behind Ethelbert, Affwin Wi brought a hand to her sword hilt. Behind Affwin Wi, Bannagran's men similarly moved.
Ethelbert held up his hand to calm his volatile assassin.
"You have revealed your desperation, Laird Ethelbert," Bannagran went on. "Your wisest course-all of you-would be to surrender and accept Yeslnik as king and pray that he have mercy upon you."
Cormack began to respond again, but Ethelbert stepped nearer to him and reached across with his arm, driving the younger man back. "I know you, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. I have seen you in battle. I saved your life once and Laird Prydae's and the lives of many of your soldiers when the powries had you trapped in a gully."
"That was a long time ago."
"But not so long that I have forgotten the Bear of Honce, Prydae's champion," said Ethelbert. "I know your axe and so I know your heart, and that heart cannot suffer the fool Yeslnik who has never bloodied a blade against a man who could defend himself."
It was perfectly quiet then, with all eyes intent on Bannagran-except for those of Bransen, who studied all the others, particularly Reandu. The monk stood completely still, holding his breath.
"I remember that day in the east when Laird Ethelbert did not shy with fear but came on to secure the flank of Pryd," Bannagran replied after a long pause. "Out of respect for that day I allow you to leave now in peace and return to your city. For your own sake, reconsider your foolish course."
"Spend the night in contemplation," Ethelbert suggested. "This is an important decision, friend."
"A night will not change all that has gone before," Bannagran answered.
"As a personal favor to a man who once saved your life
," said Ethelbert, "I will return in the morning under a flag of parlay."
Ethelbert and Bannagran stared at each other for a few heartbeats then. Ethelbert started away, his entourage turning in his wake.
All but Affwin Wi. "Highwayman," she called after Bannagran, too, had started off in the other direction.
Bransen stepped past Reandu to match her stare.
"Come and get your sword," the woman teased.
Bransen steeled his gaze and started forward, but Reandu rushed up to grab him. That alone would not have stopped the determined Bransen, but Bannagran veered to move right in front of him, scowling fiercely.
"They came holding a flag of truce," the Bear of Honce said. "Do not dare begin your vendetta under the banner of Pryd Town."
"She challenged-" Bransen stopped, seeing that he would get nowhere here. He looked past Bannagran to Affwin Wi, Merwal Yahna standing close behind her.
"Let it pass," Bannagran warned.
"She wants my sword because she broke her own in the chest of your beloved Delaval," Bransen said to unnerve him.
But Bannagran didn't blink, and Bransen turned back to regard Affwin Wi. She was smiling her wicked smile. Bransen knew that no matter the outcome of the war-whatever alliance or terms of surrender or conquest might occur-he and Affwin Wi would have their fight. And only one would survive it.
THIRTEEN
A Glimmer
On shaky legs the men carried the boulder, the tenth they had brought across the field this morning. Arms ached; fingers had long ago blackened from blood blisters where rocks had fallen upon them. They had to stop but could not, for Laird Panlamaris was ever watchful and full of rage and ire, more than ready to deal out harsh discipline. The catapults had to keep throwing stones, all the day long, and if the porters had to travel farther to gather the stones they needed, then so be it.
Laird Panlamaris's only response to their complaints was to tell them to run faster.
Milwellis watched it all with mounting concern. Day by day by day his father had grown angrier and more obsessed with Dame Gwydre. She was the cause of it all in his bloodshot eyes. She had unleashed the powries upon his beloved Palmaristown.
"Hurry with that missile!" the laird shouted at one crew struggling to get a large, unwieldy boulder up the rise from Weatherguard. "The beam is set and ready to throw! Be quick, I tell you, or you'll feel the cold iron of my sword!"
The flustered and exhausted porters tried to pick up their pace, but they grew uneven in their strides and the support poles moved too far apart, dropping the stone to the grass where it began rolling back down toward Weatherguard.
"Idiots!" Laird Panlamaris yelled, drawing out his sword and starting down the hill.
Milwellis cut in front of him to block his advance. "Father!" he yelled. "Father, no!"
Panlamaris brushed him aside and kept marching toward the crew who were now scrambling desperately, trying to reset their carry poles under the runaway boulder.
"Your point is made, laird," General Harcourt said from the side.
Panlamaris looked to him, as did Milwellis, regaining his balance. When they, too, looked down the hill to see the crew working frantically, finally hoisting the boulder once more and double stepping up the hill toward the waiting catapult, they understood Harcourt's meaning.
"You're thinking that I was making a threat to get them moving," said Panlamaris. "Might be that I was just thinking of killing one of the fools."
"Father, I beg-" said Milwellis, but he stopped abruptly when the laird fixed him with a threatening glare.
"That witch Gwydre set the beasts upon Palmaristown," Panlamaris said in a low and wicked tone. "Upon your home!" He threw his sword down at the ground, where it sank in halfway to the hilt. "Your home! Powrie rats in your home!"
He spun about to see more than a few of his bedraggled warriors staring at him wide-eyed from afar. "Every catapult's throwing!" he cried. "Fill the damned place with stones!"
"I know, Father, but…" Milwellis said, advancing, but when he got within reach, he found his voice choked off as the old and large laird grabbed him by the throat with tremendous force.
"Your home!" Panlamaris screamed in his face. He shoved Milwellis back again. "I don't want you begging," he said. "I want the witch Gwydre begging. On her knees and begging. Aye, but I'll take her good then. I'll have her every way a man can, and when I'm done with her I'll spit on her and kick her and cut her open chin to mound." He narrowed his eyes as he stared hard at his son. "Now get those porters running and get those damned catapults throwing, or I'll put you in the damned basket and fling you against the chapel wall."
Milwellis blanched and fell back another step, not knowing what to make of this demon that had once been his father. Truly, he had never seen Panlamaris so out of sorts, so full of outrage. He looked past the man to the always levelheaded Harcourt, and the general seemed almost embarrassed and equally perplexed.
"Go!" Panlamaris shouted, and Milwellis staggered away.
"My laird," Harcourt dared to say a few moments later. He walked up to his old friend and lowered his voice so that no one else could possibly hear. "Prince Milwellis is a fine progeny. He has made a great name for himself and for the line of Panlamaris."
"I will have that witch," the seething laird replied.
"It would not do to embarrass Milwellis in front of the men he has so finely commanded," Harcourt warned, and then he, too, fell under Panlamaris's withering gaze.
But the laird said no more. He tore his sword free of the ground and stalked away. Very soon after he was screaming at another crew of porters he deemed too slow with the stones, though the exhausted men seemed as if they would simply collapse where they stood.
Laird Panlamaris would hear none of it. The catapults kept their frantic pace; that was all that mattered to him. She was a fair thing, barely past her tenth birthday and full of life and love. Work on the farm was hard, to be sure, even for the child, for her father and older brother were off to war, and she and her mother and her aunts had to keep the gardens tilled and weeded.
But she was happy when she went to her chores in the field outside the small town of Greenmeadow. It was a beautiful summer day in the pretty town of trees and pastures with the silver snake of the Masur Delaval glistening in the west. On a clear day, the high walls of Delaval City could be seen far to the south, particularly if there had been a morning rain and the white stones of the great city glistened with wetness.
Not today, though, for the clouds lay heavy, and every so often a gentle mist drizzled about her.
That didn't diminish the young girl's smile. She skipped across the small field to the far planting, hoping to collect some squash in the basket she carried. She paused before she got there, puzzled by the sight of someone amidst the crops. She thought it another child, perhaps her age, for he stood about the same height as her, though his limbs and torso were much thicker.
"Hey, buy'a'mule," she called, using the nickname her father had often tagged on her, a gibberish word created for the sake of an old joke about silly children running errands to the town's common market.
The other fellow stopped and turned about, and she grew even more perplexed, for he was indeed her height, but his face was hairy like an adult's, and his clothing was most unusual.
She didn't know the significance of a powrie beret. She had never heard of the bloody-cap dwarves.
She was smiling until the very instant a serrated blade cut her throat.
All along the eastern bank of the Masur Delaval the powrie barrelboats slid onto the sand, the eager dwarves pouring forth, knives in hand. Mischief had transformed to open war, and in a powrie war there were no innocents and no civilians.
The goal was to kill anyone and everyone they encountered, to murder people in their sleep, if possible, to chase them down through the fields and forests and slay them, all of them. Their orders were to avoid the large cities of Palmaristown and Delaval and to focus instead on th
e many small villages, most no more than clusters of three or four homes. Sweep the rural areas of humans, chase them to their great cities, and then slip away to the waters of the great river, the Gulf of Corona, and the Mirianic Ocean. They would strike and strike again, along the river, the gulf, and the seacoast.
They would pay back the humans for staking powries on long poles outside of Palmaristown.
A thousand dead would not sate their bloodlust. Ten thousand dead would not sate their bloodlust. Ten thousand dead human children would not sate their bloodlust. The counterweight fell, the wheels spun, and the long arm of the trebuchet creaked and groaned and swung, launching the rock through the morning air. The crew cheered as soon as it was away, certain they were on the mark this time. Sure enough there came the sharp retort as the stone exploded against the thick and unyielding wall of St. Mere Abelle. As one the artillerymen turned to regard Laird Panlamaris, who stood, scowling as always of late, and staring at the chapel with hatred etched upon his old face.
Not far away, Prince Milwellis clapped his hands in salute to the crew, the first who had actually hit the distant chapel in more than a day.
"More!" Panlamaris barked. "Knock them into the sea!"
"Easy, my laird," said General Harcourt, standing beside him. "There aren't enough rocks in all of Honce to knock down those walls."
"There are, and we'll bring them," Panlamaris growled at him. "And we'll throw, hour after hour, day and night, until the place falls or fills. I'll have that witch."
"King Yeslnik bids us merely to hold the siege," Harcourt reminded him. For all the day, he and Milwellis had tried to gently nudge the outrage away from Laird Panlamaris. They had never seen the man in such a state, and his anger did not seem to have any end.
"I'll not be taking advice from the likes of the boy Yeslnik," Panlamaris replied. "I'll let him play at king, but only because of the gains to Palmaristown and only because he's better than the witch up that hill and better than Laird Ethelbert. So we'll do as he asks-as long as it's what we're wanting. Now I'm wanting more than to sit here and wait while that witch who sent the powries to Palmaristown rests easy."
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