The Bear

by R. A. Salvatore

  He stopped as Brother Pinower made the sign of the evergreen, and even in the dim light of predawn, he could see the blood drain from the man’s face.

  “Does the mind that is still Giavno know anything about the progress in the south?” Pinower meekly asked after a short pause.

  Bransen glanced back at the man.

  “Dame Gwydre will be out within an hour,” Brother Pinower reminded.

  Bransen nodded and sat down again beside the dreaming and restless monk.

  “No, Bransen!” Brother Pinower scolded. “You came forth in fear. Do not risk your own clarity again in the madness that is Brother Giavno!”

  “I know what I will find in there now,” Bransen calmly answered, and he flashed a confident smile.

  A smile that was a complete façade, for Bransen was truly afraid of entering the swirl of discordant and jarring sensibilities.

  But he had to.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Angry Young Laird

  They swept down from the high ground, across the grassy banking, crying out for vengeance, waving their weapons, and banging their shields. In the small town before and below them, where every man, woman, and child lay dead or dying, threescore powries adjusted their bloody caps, glowing with fresh blood, and grinned wickedly.

  To the side of the rise and the main charge, Prince Milwellis stood in his chariot, expecting this fight to go as had the previous two. His losses would be significant, he expected—perhaps as many as two hundred men—but in the end, the powries would be eliminated.

  “There is fear in their eyes,” one horseman nearby remarked, and everyone knew he was speaking of the Palmaristown garrison and not the unshakable dwarves.

  “Hold steady,” Milwellis said to all. “Our footmen will not flee the field.” Many nods came back at him, for that was the crux of their strategy this day, as in the previous fights. The footmen, peasants mostly and expendable, would swarm the town, flushing out all of the enemies, and only when their sheer numbers facilitated a powrie retreat would Milwellis and his veteran riders and charioteers sweep in from the sides to claim ultimate and final victory. They had a thousand men descending upon this hamlet; the powries might kill them fifteen to one and still be massacred in the end.

  The end, Milwellis was cunning enough to understand and callous enough to accept, was all that mattered.

  Sounds of battle joined, of the ring of iron and bronze and the screams of pain and terror and hatred, filled the air. The horses nickered and pawed the ground in nervous anticipation, proper extensions of their riders and drivers, Milwellis knew. No matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many enemies he defeated, this prebattle feeling—the sweat, the churning stomach, the fear—never changed. Milwellis thought of his first fight, a skirmish with a tribe of wild savages across the river from Palmaristown. The river was deeper and calmer on that western bank, more favorable to the larger ships being constructed, and his father had proposed building a second set of docks and a new section of the city over there. Also, the high ground directly across from the current Palmaristown seemed a perfect gateway to the great trees coveted by the shipbuilders and the open and fertile lands that could make Palmaristown the first city of Honce instead of the second.

  A very young Milwellis had led that expedition, though in truth, the prince now had to admit to himself, he had been no more than a figurehead and, perhaps, the entire mission had been designed simply to enhance Milwellis’s standing in the city proper. The “battle” on that day really wasn’t much of a fight, and not a man was killed on either side before the savages had fled into the forest, but Milwellis keenly remembered his fear and the sweat. He had thought those a sure sign of his cowardice and failure, but to his surprise, his father had assured him that any man who did not experience that discomfort before a fight wasn’t as brave as he was stupid.

  An especially piercing shriek rent the air and pulled the prince out of his contemplation, and he chuckled quietly, for he seemed to mentally replay that first fight before every impending battle.

  “Powries out to the west,” the spotter in the trees above informed them. “They’re breaking.”

  “And sails?” Milwellis called up to him.

  “North,” the man replied. The prince nodded, for the trap was in place.

  “Ride with the smell of burning Palmaristown in your noses!” Milwellis called to his men. “Ride with the sight of ruined buildings and murdered children in your eyes! Ride with the blow of the horn of Panlamaris in your ears and know this day that these dwarves we trample under hoof and under wheel will never again spill the blood of our families!”

  A great cheer went up, and horses strained against the holds of their disciplined riders and drivers.

  “Hold, Milwellis!” came a call from the back. The prince turned to see a soldier rushing toward him, waving his arms frantically. Behind the man, coming at a slower pace, marched Harcourt and some others.

  The leading soldier gasped for breath as he verily fell against the side of Milwellis’s chariot. “General Harcourt bids you to send forth your legion as planned,” he sputtered. “But for you to hold and await his arrival.”

  “What foolishness is this?” Milwellis countered, and he glanced at the riders around him, all staring incredulously at the disheveled courier. Milwellis was making his reputation as a leader who actually led the way into battle, after all, and such courage had earned him the great respect of his legions. “Stand aside or be run down!”

  “No, my laird,” the man said, and Milwellis growled and took up his reins as if to proceed, but then held back as the word “laird” registered. He turned a shocked expression at Harcourt’s courier.

  All around and behind Milwellis, horses began to trot and chariots to roll as General Harcourt, rushing forward as fast as his old legs would carry him, prodded the horsemen and charioteers to begin their charge.

  “What did you call me?” Milwellis said to the man, who blanched and seemed as if he was about to faint.

  By the time Harcourt reached Milwellis’s side, most of the cavalry was away, thundering along their predetermined course to intercept the powrie retreat. Milwellis still stood there, staring at the courier, unblinking, his mouth hanging open.

  He was still in that pose and posture when Harcourt finally managed to join him. “Milwellis, my friend, ill news from the north,” he said.

  “My father?” Milwellis mouthed quietly, still staring at the courier.

  “His force was overrun by Dame Gwydre,” Harcourt replied. He reached up to put a hand on Milwellis’s shoulder, but the prince shrugged him off. “My friend, my laird,” Harcourt said, “Laird Panlamaris of Palmaristown is slain.”

  Milwellis growled and roared and plucked a spear from the bucket of his chariot, and only Harcourt’s fast reaction stopped him from throwing it into the courier!

  “No!” Milwellis roared. “This cannot be! That damned witch of Vanguard!”

  Harcourt motioned for a couple of the men who had accompanied him to hustle the terrified courier away and turned his full attention to the volatile young man. “You are the Laird of Palmaristown now,” he said, his voice mostly calm but with a measure of consternation in it. “You cannot behave in such a way. The men must fear you but they must love you as well, or you will not receive their finest efforts.”

  “They are peasants, and I will do with them as I please.”

  “These are soldiers, my laird. Not simply peasants. Soldiers who run and ride under your banner into the lines of powries and Ethelbert’s traitors. My laird, they loved your father. Their pain at hearing his death will be little less than your own.”

  Milwellis began to argue, but when he looked at Harcourt he noticed the moisture rimming the old general’s eyes. Harcourt had been by Panlamaris’s side for decades, for longer than Milwellis had been alive, and never once had the man shown anything but love for Panlamaris.

  “Pray offer my apology to the courier,” Milwellis said so
mberly. “Then discharge the man back to Palmaristown with a bag of coin for his troubles.”

  “Wisely done, young laird.”

  “And now, get you to your team. Let us ride in together to bring ruin to these filthy dwarves, that I might turn my army back to Chapel Abelle and exact revenge upon the witch of Vanguard.”

  “Your safety is paramount for the next few days, my laird,” said Harcourt. “The city cannot lose two beloved lairds so near in time to each other.”

  “Your concern is touching,” Milwellis responded with obvious sarcasm. “Truly. Now get to your team, and let us slaughter some powrie marauders.”

  Harcourt nodded and called for his chariot.

  Sails north,” Bikelbrin said to Mcwigik, the pair rolling along as fast as their short and bandy legs could carry them. Their caps shone bright this day, and three of Milwellis’s soldiers had been taken down between them, although they argued with every stride about who struck the killing blow on the last human. But while powries could be as savage as any creature on Corona and as stubbornly brave as the demon dactyls, they weren’t outright suicidal . . . usually.

  “And lots o’ them,” Mcwigik replied. “Won’t be easy getting out.”

  “Worth trying, even?” asked Bikelbrin. “Sure that our hearts’ll be harder to find at the bottom of a river.”

  “Ye’re wanting a stake up yer bum, then?”

  Bikelbrin just sighed. “Last kill was me own.”

  “Ye hit a corpse,” Mcwigik retorted. “Too slow with yer hatchet.”

  “Yach, but when we’re done killin’ the fools here, know that I’ll spill yer own blood, Mcwigik o’ Cingarron Lea.”

  And there it was, spoken openly, as clear an admission that they were surely doomed as any powrie would ever utter.

  Mcwigik’s breath blew out then, and he let out a little yelp and staggered forward.

  “Spear!” Bikelbrin explained when he glanced his friend’s way, to see the shaft of a javelin dragging behind Mcwigik. His eyes widened as he looked past Mcwigik, and Mcwigik, too, turned about to note a chariot bearing down on them, the red-haired man driving it, all bedecked in bejeweled shining bronze armor and hoisting another javelin to throw.

  Mcwigik was flying then, thrown out of the way by his friend Bikelbrin. He bounced sidelong over the banking to tumble and bounce through the grass, cursing with every painful twist. He landed facedown in the mud by the riverbank, half in and half out of the flowing water.

  He tried to get up.

  Above him, he heard Bikelbrin gasp in pain.

  Mcwigik struggled to his knees and elbows.

  Above him, horses whinnied furiously, their hooves pounding the ground like thunder, and a shriek from one of the beasts told Mcwigik that his friend had gotten in a strike or two. Bikelbrin grunted again and cursed and Mcwigik heard the chariot rock and bounce as it passed over him. Then it pulled up short, and Bikelbrin cursed some more.

  “Come on, ye blood-haired son of a fisherman’s whore!” the powrie cried, his voice thick with pain.

  Mcwigik knew his friend was dying. He forced himself up higher and reached back, grasping the spear shaft with one hand. He closed his eyes and cried out as Bikelbrin shouted his final curse and yanked the spear free, dropping it into the dark water beside him. He tried to stand but couldn’t get higher than one knee, and when he lifted his head upright, the world began to spin before him.

  He saw his enemy, though, through the dizzying blur. The red-haired human approached in a straightforward and fearless manner, sword in hand and dripping blood.

  Bikelbrin’s blood, Mcwigik realized.

  The powrie threw his short iron sword, and the man yelped and stumbled back. He didn’t fall, though, and when he straightened again, the side of his face covered in blood, he began his determined march against the now unarmed and badly weakened Mcwigik.

  “Yach, but ye’re a boot-stomped frog!” Mcwigik said, his sentence truncated by the heavy, two-handed swing of a broadsword.

  He didn’t feel the water as he splashed facedown into the Masur Delaval.

  The last thing he heard was a distant human voice calling out, “Your face, my laird!” to his killer.

  Hold your course,” Harcourt whispered repeatedly to Milwellis over the next few days. Scouts returned from all parts, assuring the new Laird of Palmaristown that there was no enemy force congregating anywhere near his already battered and wounded city.

  Milwellis grimaced with every repetition, always looking north along the river, always looking home. “He should come forth,” he replied several times, referring to the King of Honce, who, by all accounts, was holed up in his walled city, surrounded by tens of thousands of soldiers.

  “His hesitance is your gain,” Harcourt answered on a foggy morning along the riverbank. “We are more than halfway to Delaval City from Palmaristown and have swept the land and the river clear of powries through all of that populated region.”

  “The people sing praise for the King of Honce,” Milwellis reminded.

  “They sing louder for the savior Laird of Palmaristown. For you. And King Yeslnik hears those songs, do not doubt. Your march has been as brilliant as courageous, and all the folk are taking notice. You’ll hear few songs to Bannagran now and many to Milwellis.”

  “King Yeslnik will come to see me as a rival,” Milwellis remarked.

  “He will come to realize that you are his only hope.”

  “And yet, this Bannagran peasant controls more of his army than I.”

  “Where is Bannagran?” Harcourt asked. “The threat is here, the bloody caps, and Bannagran has not arrived on the field. King Yeslnik values his own safety above all else, and you, Laird Milwellis, secure that. With every victory you strike, with every powrie force massacred and drowned, Palmaristown stands taller.”

  “My father was defeated by Yeslnik’s enemies,” Milwellis stated flatly.

  “All the more reason for you to hold to your course and secure the whole of the Masur Delaval,” replied Harcourt, and his voice did crack a bit at the painful reminder. “You must climb upon your father’s broad shoulders and stand taller than he. Your actions now, for Honce and not just for Palmaristown, secure your place as the second of Yeslnik. All the coast for Palmaristown, from our city across the gulf and down the Mantis Arm all the way to Ethelbert dos Entel. That was your father’s dream, and will be your reality.”

  Milwellis stared at loyal Harcourt for a long while, truly appreciating the man. He knew that Harcourt was hurting badly—as badly as he was—by the loss of Laird Panlamaris. He knew that Harcourt, like he, wanted nothing more than to turn back for Palmaristown and then march east to Chapel Abelle to repay the traitors. But Harcourt never once wavered, his eyes and words and vision locked on the mission at hand, solidly for the benefit of Palmaristown and, now that he was laird, for the benefit of Milwellis.

  “We come into lands where Bannagran should arrive,” Milwellis said. “Narrow the line nearer to the riverbank and let us increase our pace. If any powries have moved farther inland, let Bannagran have them. I wish to see Delaval City before the week’s end.”

  Harcourt considered the orders for a moment, then nodded and smiled at the young laird. “Wisely decided,” he said.

  “King Yeslnik will see the flag of Palmaristown before he spies the banner of the peasants of Pryd,” Milwellis assured his general. “He’ll be knowing who it was that kept him safe in his high walls.”

  Harcourt’s smile was genuine. His heart stung for the loss of his old friend Panlamaris, but it lifted with hope anew at the cunning and ambition of the man’s red-haired son. Laird Panlamaris was dead, but Palmaristown would know a stronger and brighter day.

  Laird Milwellis would rise now, above all others. Of that, Harcourt was confident.

  EIGHTEEN

  Daring the Consequences

  Bransen felt as if he were sifting through a tangle of roots, as if two willows had joined in battle, their supple appendages whi
pping and wrapping and twisting until it became impossible to know where one tree ended and the other began. For such was the tangle within poor Brother Giavno’s mind.

  Every now and then, Bransen could get a sense as to which branch belonged to which tree, Giavno or Ishat (he knew the man’s name to be Ishat), but even then the challenge for his disembodied spirit remained, for he, too, was now a willow in the wind, trying to control his own thoughts, trying to keep his own supple mental appendages from grappling with and being entwined with those of Giavno and Ishat. He knew what he wanted to do, though; if he could manage to help Giavno regain a sense of self, a foothold in time and space and a realization that this was his body and place, perhaps the monk would have a fighting chance of expelling the man from Behr.

  Bransen had no sense of time in here, for the thoughts piled one above the previous in rapid succession. Most of those moments were spent in mental dodging, pulling away before being caught and held. Every now and then, however, Bransen did find a distinctive thread, a piece of consciousness he knew to be Brother Giavno. On those occasions, he silently screamed at the man to stand firm, to know his sense of self, and to recognize that this was, indeed, his place. And as the surprisingly clear streams of Giavno’s consciousness flitted and dispersed, Bransen always warned him that there was no other place to be found, that if he could not win here, he was doomed to nothingness.

  Bransen opened wide his eyes and fell back to the side, sliding right off the chair and barely catching himself before staggering several steps. He stood up straight, gasping and trying to find some easy rhythm to his breathing, reminding himself repeatedly of who he was and where he was and what he had just, of necessity, done.