The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  Dawson just chortled and gave a crooked-toothed grin.

  Laird Ethelbert’s palace was not a grand affair compared to the splendors of St. Mere Abelle, but it was quite beautiful and, like the city around it, filled with the colorful and exotic goods of the strange kingdom to the south. Painted screens and fans gave a myriad of angles to every room. The polished stones of the hallways prompted shiny and intricate designs of swirling colors and even a few small distinctive images that seemed like pieces of larger murals or teasing sentence fragments on an ancient and much-damaged parchment. The effect proved intoxicating even to grumpy Dawson.

  A long time passed before Cormack and the others realized that Father Destros had slowed his pace considerably to let them bask in the beauty of Castle Ethelbert. He’d led them in a roundabout path to view it all, they realized, when at last they came into the wide audience hall of the laird.

  There was no carpet leading to the marble throne and the old man seated upon it, but the patterns on the floor tiles showed them a clear enough path. A pair of delicate fountains stood to either side of that walkway, two-tiered and with graceful fish statues spitting water into the lower bowl and complementing beautifully the flow and grace of the mosaic tiles and the many screens and tapestries along the walls. Even the guards—dressed in red and blue and with wide flowing sashes as belts and sporting tassels along the length of their tall pole arms—seemed more decorative than utilitarian, though there was no doubting the strength of those iron hooks and axe heads they held fast!

  Cormack, Dawson, and Milkeila took it all in, basking in the designs, but the former monk’s gaze soon enough locked on a most curious figure, a small woman, her black hair and brown skin revealing her to be from Behr. She was dressed in black silks and carrying a sword that Cormack was certain he recognized. She stood to the right of the dais that held Ethelbert’s throne, beside a man of similar heritage who was similarly dressed. Cormack instinctively understood the danger of these two, much more pronounced than the power of the laird’s military advisors standing across the throne from them. It was hard to discern the musculature of the man, who was not of extraordinary height or girth, but Cormack knew that his muscles were tightly wound, like a coiled spring. His head was shaven, his eyebrows thick and black, and his dark eyes did not ever seem to blink, as if the lids dared not interrupt his intense stare.

  “My laird, I present Dawson McKeege of Vanguard, emissary of Dame Gwydre,” Father Destros said after bowing to Ethelbert. “And his companions, Cormack of . . .”

  He paused and glanced back at Cormack and silently mouthed, “St. Mere Abelle?” to which the monk smiled and nodded.

  “Of St. Mere Abelle, the Blessed Chapel,” Destros continued. “And his wife, Milkeila of Alpinador. A most varied and unusual crew has come to our docks!”

  That last flourish seemed lost on Laird Ethelbert, who stared only at Cormack with great intrigue.

  “What are you wearing?” the old man said, and, indeed, he seemed ancient to the three newcomers, as old and tired as Father Artolivan himself.

  “My laird?” Cormack asked.

  “On your head,” Ethelbert clarified. “Is that the beret of a red-cap dwarf?”

  Cormack shuffled from foot to foot and cleared his throat. “It is, Laird Ethelbert,” he explained. “Won in mortal combat.”

  “You killed a powrie and took his cap?”

  Cormack thought back to that fateful day on a beach in far-off Alpinador, on the steamy, hot lake of Mithranidoon, when he had battled a nasty little dwarf named Pragganag. He hadn’t actually killed the wretch, but he had won the fight. The other powries had then finished the job and had given him Prag’s hat as a trophy as agreed upon before the duel.

  “I defeated the dwarf and took his cap,” said Cormack, trying to sound confident, “and by order of Father De Guilbe, who led my chapel, I am bound to wear it forevermore.”

  Ethelbert looked to Destros, but the young monk could only shrug, having never heard of such a thing before.

  “Any man who can beat a powrie . . .” Ethelbert paused. “What weapon did you use?”

  “No weapon,” Cormack assured him.

  The response brought a great guffaw of laughter from the old laird. “Any man who can beat a powrie—and with his bare hands no less—is a man I want by my side in battle!” the laird proclaimed, to many approving nods.

  Ethelbert came forward in his chair suddenly, poking a finger Cormack’s way. “But if you’re lying,” he warned, wagging that digit and wearing a scowl—but one that could not hold as he fell back and laughed again. “If you’re lying, then I’d want you beside me anyway, to tell my tales as fancifully as you weave your own!”

  Almost everyone in the room began to laugh, including the three newcomers, who looked to each other with great relief. Everyone, that is, but the silk-clad warriors, who were not even grinning.

  “You’ve sailed a long way,” Ethelbert said when the titter and chatter died away. “Do you mean to tell me why?”

  “To tell you of the proclamation of St. Mere Abelle,” Cormack said, “though it seems you have already heard the word.”

  “Even the church could not swallow the bile of the fool Yeslnik,” said Ethelbert, his voice strained as he spat the cursed name.

  “And we came because you’ve wound yourself into a tight spot,” Dawson said bluntly. “And so have we, caught in the walls of St. Mere Abelle.”

  Ethelbert paused, his face growing very serious. All around him men tensed, a reaction similar to that out on the docks when Dawson had mentioned the state of the war.

  “The Dame of Vanguard will not see Yeslnik win,” Dawson quickly added.

  “Dame Gwydre will support my cause?”

  Dawson paused, frowning. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Laird Ethelbert.” Dawson looked all around. “Perhaps in a setting more private,” he continued in a lower voice. To the surprise of many in the room, and to the absolute shock of Father Destros, Laird Ethelbert nodded his agreement and told his attendants to arrange it immediately.

  Dawson and Cormack exchanged quick, knowing looks: Laird Ethelbert’s predicament was obviously as dire as they had heard.

  In short order, the three visitors to the city sat in a small room before Ethelbert, who was flanked by an older veteran warrior and Father Destros on one side and by the dark-skinned woman from Behr on the other. Unlike all the others in the room, she did not sit down, and her hand did not stray far from the hilt of the fabulous sword hanging on her left hip, a sword that looked exactly like the one Bransen carried.

  “Choose your words carefully,” Laird Ethelbert warned to begin the negotiation.

  “We didn’t sail halfway around the world, dodging Palmaristown warships and powrie barrelboats all the way, to dance pretty,” Dawson replied.

  “What does Dame Gwydre offer?”

  “Not just Dame Gwydre, but St. Mere Abelle, as well,” Cormack interjected.

  Ethelbert shifted painfully in his seat, seeming even older than before.

  “The war does not go well for you,” said Dawson. “You’ve put a grand fight against Yeslnik and his uncle before him, by all accounts, but there’s too many in Delaval and Palmaristown, and all along the river. Yeslnik can put fifty thousand in the field, and you’ve just a tenth o’ that.”

  “We have heard proclamations of our defeat before,” answered the veteran at Ethelbert’s side. “Usually right before we chased Yeslnik from the field!”

  “A grand fight,” Dawson said again. “And no disrespect intended—far from it. Would that Laird Ethelbert had won the war outright, but ’twas not to be and is not to be.”

  “Then what?” asked Ethelbert. “I thought Dawson claimed that he did not dance prettily.”

  “True enough,” replied the old sea dog from rugged Vanguard. “You cannot win, and you know you cannot win.”

  “I will kill him for you, great Ethelbert,” the woman in silk promised in a thick Behr acc
ent, leaning forward.

  Ethelbert held up his hand to silence her. “What do you know?”

  “Only what you know,” Dawson replied. “And not to doubt that our own situation isn’t much more promising, except that we’re caught behind the tall and thick walls of the great chapel, with a horde of monks and magical gemstones to keep our enemies out. And not to doubt that we’re not to win over Yeslnik’s thousands, either.”

  “Not alone,” Cormack explained.

  “You’ve come for an alliance,” said Ethelbert. “Ethelbert dos Entel and Vanguard, combined against Yeslnik.”

  “And the Order of Blessed Abelle,” Cormack added. “Those who remain loyal to Father Artolivan, at least, for rumor spreads that Yeslnik has created a shadow church to subvert Father Artolivan’s power.”

  Father Destros’s face tightened at that, but he nodded to show that he was not surprised and, it appeared, to offer a bit of support for Artolivan.

  “Then as I said out in the main chamber you have come to offer your support for my cause,” said Ethelbert.

  “Partly that,” Dawson replied. “An alliance, but not fealty.”

  “Explain.”

  “Dame Gwydre is your peer, not your subject, and the church of Father Artolivan is something altogether different than those choices,” said Dawson. “We need to work together to rid the land of Yeslnik, but not to place King Ethelbert in his stead.”

  That had all of those seated opposite Dawson bristling with outrage. Except for Ethelbert, who leaned back and rubbed a hand wearily over his old, wrinkled face. After some consideration, he shook his head.

  “Vanguard separate, perhaps,” he said. “But not the other holdings. It cannot be. After years of war and with the roads locked under the boots of armies, Honce cannot be as she was. The lairds must stand united.”

  “Aye, and not Vanguard separate,” said Dawson.

  “Then what?” Ethelbert demanded. “What does Dame Gwydre want?”

  “Queen Gwydre,” Dawson dared to correct, widening the eyes of the four across the room. “Ethelbert remains independent and supreme in his holding,” Dawson quickly added. “Your city is your own, good laird, in gratitude from all of Honce for the battle you dared wage.”

  “Silence!” Laird Ethelbert shouted. “You come to my throne demanding fealty of me?”

  “We come demanding nothing but offering our help in your struggle with Yeslnik.”

  “Mutual benefit?”

  Dawson nodded. “Best kind.”

  “But to the end result of a Queen Gwydre?” Ethelbert asked incredulously. “Why would I agree to any such thing?”

  “Because your only other choice is to be pushed into the sea,” Cormack said, surprising everyone. “Or to remain trapped here surrounded by enemies. With a Queen Gwydre enthroned, Laird Ethelbert would be a man of the highest standing across the realm, independent within his own holding and in his dealings with others, like the sheiks of Behr. Such will not be the case with a King Yeslnik.”

  “But wouldn’t that be the case with King Ethelbert?” the laird asked.

  “We cannot prevail were those the terms,” said Cormack. “Our only hope lies in turning some of Yeslnik’s minions to our cause. The Order of Blessed Abelle helps with that, but the name of Ethelbert is not held in high esteem in the lands of central and western Honce. You have dug deep trenches with your war, and not a family in Honce has been spared the grief. Such is not true of Dame Gwydre, who will be viewed as an alternative to the misery the common folk have known these last months and years. They will view her with hope, a savior from their pain, and will perhaps turn against their King Yeslnik and fight for her.”

  The old warrior to Ethelbert’s side began to protest, but the laird cut him short with a snarling and derisive, “The common folk.”

  “All the men of Vanguard and all the men at your command combined would falter at the feet of Yeslnik’s great army,” said Dawson.

  “And so you are in as desperate a situation as I,” Ethelbert protested.

  “Nay, for we can just sail home and be done with it,” Dawson replied.

  “The walls of St. Mere Abelle are impenetrable,” Cormack added. “Forever and more can the brothers remain within. We are all quite above this war of yours if we so choose.”

  Ethelbert’s narrowed eyes were his only response.

  “Or it would have been, and still would be, a small matter for Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to broker a truce with Yeslnik in exchange for the autonomy of Vanguard, a land for which he cares little, and to which he cannot easily march or sail,” Cormack added, though didn’t quite believe. “But we choose this path.”

  “Because Dame Gwydre is no different than Delaval and Yeslnik,” Ethelbert said with a snicker.

  “So different you’d never think her a laird . . . err, dame,” Dawson answered.

  “Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan choose this path out of generosity and duty,” said Cormack. “They cannot abide the agony the common folk of Honce suffer because of the designs of an ambitious laird.”

  Ethelbert stiffened at that, and Cormack added, “We know that Delaval began this war, and that you tried to do as we now hope. And we have no love of Yeslnik or his second from Palmaristown, a brutal and wretched man. We would see Yeslnik defeated. This is the only way, and even this plan seems desperate.”

  “But you would do it for Queen Gwydre?” asked Ethelbert.

  “We do it because it’s right,” Dawson answered. “Same reason we just fought the Samhaists in Vanguard.”

  “But you called it desperate and claim that you can sail away from it.”

  “A sorry bunch of heroes that’d make us,” said Dawson.

  “Heroes, yes,” the laird replied with more than a little sarcasm.

  “We have come as friends and allies, Laird Ethelbert,” Cormack said, “openly and under a flag of truce. Our offer is one of cooperation and friendship and is yours to accept or reject.”

  “And if I reject?”

  “We sail away to St. Mere Abelle.”

  “To Yeslnik’s side?”

  “Never,” Cormack and Dawson said together.

  Ethelbert managed a nod of acceptance at that. He waved them away, then. “Go to your boat or remain in the castle if you choose—my attendants will see to your room and needs. We will meet again when I have discussed this with my generals here.”

  The three rose, bowed, and turned to leave, but Cormack hesitated and fixed his gaze on the Behr warrior woman. “That sword,” he said. “It is most marvelous.”

  The woman eyed him dangerously, unblinking.

  “Affwin Wi is from the land of Behr, where such swords are crafted,” Ethelbert answered.

  “It is Jhesta Tu, is it not?”

  “Speaking a name does not reveal understanding,” the dark woman replied in her thick Behr accent, biting the syllables short and almost stabbing with the hard consonant sounds. “And does not impress. Speaking of what you do not know is the mark of a fool.”

  Cormack sorted out a reply, wanting to explore the origin of this particular sword a bit further. Instead he changed his mind and just smiled, bowed, and caught up with his companions, who had decided to go back to the security of Lady Dreamer.

  Impertinent fools,” said Kirren Howen, the general who had sat by Laird Ethelbert’s side for the private meeting. Past middle age but not nearly Ethelbert’s contemporary, the thick-haired, graying warrior took care with his tone to make his claim one of support and not absolute judgment.

  Laird Ethelbert turned from the counter where he was pouring fine liquor for the two into delicate glasses he had recently received from Behr.

  “Look at these,” he said, holding them up for his friend. “You can see the tan liquid through their shining sides. So much more delicate and beautiful than a bronze mug, no matter how many wolves or dancing ladies you carve into one.”

  Kirren Howen cocked his head curiously. “Yes, laird.” He took the g
lass as Ethelbert moved over and extended it to him.

  “Yet another fine example of the idiocy of parochialism, do you agree?”

  The general seemed not to understand.

  “Beasts of Behr!” Ethelbert exclaimed with a laugh, explaining it all so bluntly and so simply, as was his wont. Certainly Kirren Howen caught on to the meaning immediately. For most of Honce, the desert kingdom south of the impassable mountains was a place of barbarians and beasts masquerading as men. But Laird Ethelbert and those of his court knew better.

  “Have you ever seen Affwin Wi dance?”

  “My laird?”

  “You have witnessed her in battle, no doubt.”

  “Of course.”

  “As fine a warrior as ever carried a blade—though she would not even need a blade to kill most opponents.”

  “I cannot deny the truth of that.”

  “She is equally exquisite when she dances. A promise of love, delicate and beautiful, or dangerous, even deadly. She can twirl about on the ball of one foot slowly enough to kill a man with lust or break into a spin so fast that if she kicked out of it she could surely crush a man’s heart with her foot. She is Behr, you see. So raw and pure, colorful and dark, delicate and deadly.”

  The door burst in then and two men, brawny warriors both, stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over each other.

  “My laird,” they said together.

  “I can take their miserable ship right out of the water, Laird Ethelbert,” promised one, Myrick the Bold, the ferocious and impetuous commander of Entel, the city’s dock section.

  “And I will deliver their heads to the gates of Chapel Abelle,” said the other, an enormously strong man named Tyne.

  “I thank the old ones and Blessed Abelle and the Sun God of Behr—whichever might be listening!—for you every day, Kirren,” Ethelbert said to his older and calmer general. He tapped his glass against Kirren Howen’s.

  Another man, small of frame and hardly hinting at any warrior stature, rushed into the room. “Your pardon, my laird,” said Palfry, Ethelbert’s favorite attendant, like a son to the old laird. “I tried to slow them. . . .”