The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  No.

  I do not even hesitate in answering that question. The man has left too many clues to the contrary. If Affwin Wi were the Dame of Pryd, she would not have let me live when I was captured there recently . . . or she would have crippled me beyond repair and dragged me to Yeslnik so that he could enjoy my execution.

  Affwin Wi would not have allowed the prisoners who were held at Chapel Pryd to don the robes of the order and escape King Yeslnik’s sentence of death.

  So the question becomes, Why, then, would this man of conscience and honor allow himself to be used as a pawn for immoral men such as Yeslnik?

  This dilemma followed me as I slowly crawled out of my bed and moved across the room to the window looking over the chapel’s back wall and the dark waters of the gulf.

  I found my answer when I first peered out, before I lifted the glass pane and inadvertently viewed my own reflection.

  For I see the answer to Bannagran of Pryd when I look into the mirror darkly and honestly.

  Always a champion, never a laird, truly, for either of us. We dare to serve and serve extraordinarily well, when duty is thrust upon us, when Bannagran goes to fight Ethelbert and Bransen goes to fight Ancient Badden. But when the path is not determined by someone else of greater authority, then Bannagran balks and Bransen. . . .

  I’ll never forget the look on my face as I snickered before that glass in the predawn room at St. Mere Abelle. I was naked, figuratively and literally. In the dark of night, in the long shadows, I had nowhere left to hide.

  For in the moment of truth and courage, I had run away. I had abandoned Reandu and Cormack and Milkeila and Dame Gwydre’s cause and all that I know to be right, because in that moment I had been a coward.

  And in following this wicked and “impetulant,” as Jameston labeled him, King Yeslnik, so, too, is Bannagran playing the role of the coward. Never on the field of battle, certainly, neither he nor I, but in the realm of responsibility, so alike are we and so cowardly, both.

  Would Bannagran admit the truth of himself to himself, I wonder?

  And if he did, could he bring himself to march for King Yeslnik?

  From the time of Jameston’s death, and despite my protests to the contrary, I meandered without purpose. Through the southland and to Pryd, then east with Bannagran and north to St. Mere Abelle, my paths had been a mixture of self-delusion and self-denial, constantly thumbing my nose at the wider world in a pout of superiority and feigned indifference. For the first time since Jameston’s murder, looking at my reflection in that dark room, the sound of Cadayle’s steady breathing anchoring me, I knew my road.

  And I knew the consequence of failure, to myself and to Honce.

  —BRANSEN GARIBOND

  SIXTEEN

  Body, Mind, and Soul

  Cormack knew better than to question Milkeila’s instincts. The shaman had noted something amiss, some movement or sound, perhaps. She paced about their small encampment cautiously, peering into the darkness, holding her solid oaken staff in one hand and the loops of her toothy necklace in the other.

  She chanted to the trees and the grass, bidding them to tell her the secrets of those who walked near.

  She kept ending her song, though, and turning to Cormack, her expression befuddled. “They tell me of no intruders.”

  “But you do not believe them?”

  “Someone, something, is about,” the shaman declared. She swept her gaze across the fields and trees. “I sense it keenly.”

  She moved to the fire and began chanting again, but this time her call was to the fire itself, strengthening it, brightening it.

  Cormack joined her and took out his dagger, though it was more a knife for utility, like cutting kindling, than a serious weapon. “Do you know where? . . .” he started to ask, but he stopped suddenly and spun about, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  “You felt that?” Milkeila whispered, turning beside him.

  “Or heard it,” Cormack said, unsure which of his senses had told him that there was someone or something near.

  Brother Cormack, he heard in his thoughts, not in exact words, but a representation of a greeting by a familiar voice. He recoiled instinctively, mental defenses rushing to the forefront to deny the intrusion. Even as he did that, hardly thinking of it, he sorted out the intrusion and knew, then, the source.

  “Brother Giavno!” he said aloud, and Milkeila screwed up her expression curiously.

  “Spirit walking!” Cormack explained in a harsh whisper. He nodded as it came clearer to him. “He seeks information so that he might report to Dame Gwydre.”

  “So we must tell him.”

  “All of it,” said Cormack, and he began, paused, and asked a question instead. “Has Dawson returned to St. Mere Abelle?”

  Yes, he heard in his mind.

  Now knowing where to properly begin, Cormack started recounting their adventures at Laird Ethelbert’s side, of the meeting with Bannagran and Bransen and the loss of Jameston Sequin.

  “We have not surrendered the notion of a truce with Laird Bannagran yet,” he finished after a few moments. “He seems not an unreasonable man, and Brother Reandu does not support the cause of Father De Guilbe—of that, I am sure.”

  He felt Giavno’s approval and a sensation of farewell, and a moment later Cormack looked at Milkeila and announced that they were alone.

  But they were not.

  Weary from his magical expenditures and from simply resisting the urge to possess Brother Cormack, Giavno’s ghost swept out of the encampment. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to soar through Bannagran’s lines to learn what he might of the powerful laird or return straight to St. Mere Abelle and report on Cormack’s progress, perhaps to return the next night.

  Barely away from the couple, though, Brother Giavno found a detour.

  He sensed them before he saw them, their mortal forms compelling his wandering spirit toward them. Their positioning and posture warned him clearly enough, for they—two forms—crept along branches in the direction of Cormack and Milkeila.

  Bandits?

  Giavno flew in closer. Though he dared not try to read the minds of either, he felt their malice, and he saw their weapons.

  He sped back to the encampment and imparted a fast warning, Murderers! Flee! to both.

  Cormack sputtered a question, but Giavno didn’t pause. He sent forth the thought again, Murderers! Flee! and willed his unseen spirit back to the forest.

  Ishat Parzun crouched on the thick branch, twisting himself about in an effort to gain a clear look at the low firelight ahead. He held up his fist, signaling his companion to halt. He licked his dry lips, knowing that Affwin Wi would not be pleased if he failed in this. Half their band of eight had been killed: one in a fight with Milwellis’s knights; two by the Jhesta Tu Highwayman; and one by the tall scout, Sequin.

  Affwin Wi would tolerate no further failures.

  But this seemed simple enough. Ishat and Wahloon had teamed on successful assassinations several times before, and these two strangers did not seem so formidable. Not compared with the martial prowess of two Hou-lei warriors, at least.

  Still, the assassin reminded himself to take it slow as he crept inch by inch along the upsweeping branch, moving closer to the firelight and higher.

  The victims were scrambling! They knew!

  Ishat Parzun leaped to his feet and waved Wahloon forward. Off Ishat ran, along the branch, leaping to another and taking a circuitous route to the right of the couple. The man, Cormack, yelled out and grabbed at his arm, and Ishat understood that Wahloon had scored a hit with a shur’a’tu’wikin, a small throwing star, Wahloon’s favored weapon.

  Now Wahloon had the attention of the couple, and Ishat rushed along, confident of the kill. To the side and above, he leaped and executed a twisting somersault, catching a branch in his grasp. He swung under but held fast as the branch bent forward under his momentum, then reversed his direction, meaning to let go with one hand and spin aroun
d at the exact moment of the branch’s greatest swingback, dropping from above onto his victims.

  He caught it, swung out, and then came back and started to turn.

  And then it hit him, as solidly as if a club had struck him on the side of his head. Ishat Parzun had never been violated in this manner before, and the sudden and vicious encroachment of another soul into his mortal body revolted him so profoundly that he lost all sense of where he was.

  Somewhere in the distance the woman shaman screamed a warning. He flew from the branch, tumbling out of control. He landed feetfirst, but falling forward, hooking his toes awkwardly, and the ground rushed up to slam him in the face.

  But Ishat didn’t feel that impact, or the blood rushing out of his shattered nose, or the sharp pain about one eye from a crushed socket. No, his pain was internal at that awful moment, as a clawing, shadowy form assailed something more profound and sensitive than his flesh, as an invading spirit fought to expel him from his own corporeal coil.

  Milkeila’s cry and her shove were the only things that allowed Cormack to fall out of the way of the flying black-clad form. The back of his arm torn and burning with fiery pain, Cormack stumbled and fell to one knee as the assassin flew past him, landing hard. The man’s awkward descent made no sense to Cormack and Milkeila, for they thought these warriors akin to the graceful Highwayman.

  The monk didn’t focus on that unexplained event, though. Expecting more of the sharp missiles from the man crossing the other side of the encampment, Cormack threw himself into a forward roll and came back to his feet angling to the side. He spied the other assailant, the man’s arm up to throw, but before he ever executed the throw, the small campfire exploded, directionally and with the blast aimed right at the star-throwing assailant. Sparks and cinders cut through the darkness, and the warrior launched himself sidelong through the air.

  Cormack glanced at Milkeila. Of course she had done that! She faced the fire, chanting to the ancient spirits of the earth, bending the flames.

  “Come!” Cormack called to her. “Quickly! We know not how many more are about!” He scrambled to her side, and together they ran into the tree line. A whistle just over his head was the only indication Cormack had of how close the next missile had come.

  They had barely reached the trees when Milkeila spun back and raised her staff and necklace, and Cormack noted a wave of energy, like the distortion of a heated surface, roll out from her. The assailant nearest them writhed on the ground, seemingly out of his senses, but the other man had nimbly come back to his feet. He started forward but jerked weirdly, for the grass was grabbing at his feet, and when he tore one foot free, a clump of dirt went flying! He did well to regain his balance almost immediately, but then a branch bent down at him, as if grabbing at him!

  And indeed it was. Cormack marveled at his wife’s attunement with the plants about them. Strong was Milkeila’s magic, and without gemstones, and it remained one of Cormack’s greatest laments that his order would not study the mysterious powers of Yan Ossum, would not see them in concert with the powers bestowed by the gemstones of Blessed Abelle.

  Now Milkeila went with him into the darkness of the tree line, but barely had they entered when the woman stopped and shook her head, looking back the way they had come.

  If Brother Giavno could have seen his own body, far across the miles in St. Mere Abelle, he was certain that his face would be streaked with tears. The tumult and darkness of possession engulfed him and swirled and jumbled everything he had known to be good or evil.

  Even so, he could not stop. For the sake of Cormack and Milkeila, perhaps for the success or failure of the war itself, he could not surrender this battle. So he thrashed, losing himself in the fury of the moment, battling for control, muscle by muscle.

  The body he had invaded was enough his own at that point for him to feel the grab on his shoulder when the assassin’s companion came by, yanking him roughly to his feet.

  “Ishat!” he heard the man scold him, and he saw momentarily out of Ishat’s eyes to witness the other man lift his arm, a small circular throwing missile in hand.

  Brother Giavno tried to yell out, “Cormack,” but nothing decipherable came forth from the twisted lips. The monk gained enough control of one arm to lash out, though, his punch slamming his companion in the jaw just as he moved to throw.

  The momentum had Ishat stumbling forward into the lurching man—at least until that warrior deftly and powerfully caught his balance and shifted in a twist, throwing Ishat over his hip. Staggering, out of control, both Giavno and Ishat reflexively recoiled as they went face-first into the fire.

  Explosions of searing pain assaulted Giavno and Ishat simultaneously, and now the corporeal form did scream out, as the two inhabitants found common agony. Arms and legs began thrashing, desperately trying to get out of the blaze. He—they—hit the dirt and began rolling about wildly to douse the biting flames.

  “Ishat!” the other man cried.

  The assassin went to his fallen friend, slapping at the flames and trying to roll the wounded man over.

  And all the while, Cormack lined up his charge, for Milkeila had assured him that there were only these two.

  The black-clad man lifted his friend’s arm, then cried out and threw his arms up defensively as Cormack flew in sidelong, a heavy body block. He collided hard and took the smaller Behr man down beneath him, the monk scrambling even as they hit the ground to execute a deadly hold. Cormack was no stranger to battle. His fighting prowess had been the primary reason he had been selected to journey to Alpinador with Father De Guilbe’s expedition those years before. He wore a powrie cap because he had, indeed, defeated a bloody-cap dwarf in single hand-to-hand combat, no easy feat for any human!

  Cormack didn’t know how he might measure up against either of these two assassins in a fair fight, though he suspected the answer to be not very well if either was anywhere near as proficient a fighter as Bransen. With that unsettling thought in mind, his focus from run to leap to body block and now, especially now, remained tight. All that he wanted to do was get his legs wrapped about the man’s neck.

  And he did, and he clamped down with all his strength. The man reached up at him, or tried to, but the grass grabbed at him once more, further pinning him.

  Milkeila was doing that, Cormack knew, and he clamped down tighter, with all his strength, and dared glance back to see his beloved wife rattling her necklace in the air before her, bidding the grass to pull at the man.

  “The other one,” Cormack growled to Milkeila, for now his leg vise was set and he knew that his battle was at its end.

  The downed assailant pulled an arm free and slapped at Cormack’s leg, but weakly and too late, and Cormack just rolled himself to the side, bending the doomed man’s head back with the turn.

  And the former monk of Abelle squeezed and pushed aside his compassion with a continual reminder that this man was as dangerous as Bransen.

  The pain did not abate, though the flames were gone, for now it was of a different source, a brutal struggle of muscle against muscles, of muscles against themselves. Brother Giavno and Ishat battled furiously within the wounded body, Ishat instinctively countering every attempt by Giavno to garner any control of any part of the body that belonged to him.

  Normally, a possessing brother in such a situation would be expelled; his own reactions to the horror of possession would weaken his willpower enough for the host spirit to throw him far. But Giavno knew the stakes here, and he fought harder and more furiously, pointedly sending his demands to parts of the body where he believed Ishat to be weakest. They thrashed and squirmed, rolled about and kicked and flailed wildly. Fists clenched and the muscles of one arm contracted, biceps and triceps, each pulling against the other to their fullest, so disconnected to each other, so lost in the singular determination of separate wills, that the fibers tore and blotches and bruises erupted the length of the upper arm.

  A second battle erupted in Ishat’s jaw, with t
eeth grinding and pressing tightly. At one point, Giavno gained the upper hand, and Ishat’s mouth twisted open just enough for Giavno to stick out the man’s tongue. Ishat regained control. Hardly conscious of the movement, he clamped the jaw tightly again, biting off the end of his tongue.

  And so it went, thrashing and squirming, pain mixing with strain, sharp and dull and weaving in and out as each of the internal combatants wrestled back control. Through all of it, Giavno fought blindly, blackness and pain and his sense of self somehow mingling with, being lost to, the identity of Ishat.

  He managed to gain control of the one eye that was not swollen shut just in time to catch a glimmer of Milkeila’s form standing over them, of Milkeila’s staff fast descending.

  A burst of senselessness, an explosion of white fire that quickly dulled to nothingness, sent Giavno spiraling uncontrollably. Again, though, he did not exit the corporeal form, but instead felt a contraction, a pointed tightness and grip in his, in Ishat’s, chest.

  Then he felt a sudden cold sensation and saw a flood of light, distant and surrounded by blackness as if he was looking through a dark tube. And growing, rushing toward him and he toward it. He felt nothing, he knew . . . nothing.

  Brother Giavno—the collection of memories and experiences and thoughts that comprised the consciousness of the man known as Brother Giavno—felt a rush of freedom as his soul flew from Ishat’s dying corporeal form.

  Then nothing. Emptiness. A void.

  Nonexistence.

  Brother Giavno’s eyes popped open wide, and he reflexively threw himself to the side, crashing into the wall of the small meditation room at St. Mere Abelle. He tried to make sense of what he had seen, to put it in the perspective of Blessed Abelle and the promises of eternity. He tried, but everything jumbled too quickly. He tried to call for Brother Pinower, for Father Premujon, but the sounds that came out of his mouth made no sense, the garbled nonsense of a spirit-walking brother gone insane.