“You believe that?” Cormack asked.
“I do,” said Bransen. “And more than that, I believe it to be the worst of the possible scenarios. This meeting with Bannagran is not over. I did not carry Dame Gwydre halfway across Honce to so easily let Bannagran avoid facing the truth of his decisions.”
Bransen smiled wryly, walked back to the sill, and swung his legs out the window. “In fact, I think I will pay our Laird of Pryd a visit at this very late hour.”
“Wait!” Reandu called as Bransen started to slip outside. “What has happened to you?” Reandu asked. “When last we parted . . .”
Standing on the lawn before the window then, Bransen turned to regard the master. “In the midst of a war, I have found peace,” Bransen replied. He left it at that, though many more thoughts streamed through his mind. His voice was strong and he felt strong, though he wouldn’t take the chance of removing the soul stone strapped to his forehead; too much was at stake for him to risk the return of the Stork. That strength of body reflected his inner calm, he knew, his newfound purpose and understanding.
It was worth it. He believed that now. With a nod to his friends, he started off across the courtyard, not to the front gate, but to the side wall that separated the grounds of Chapel Pryd from those of Castle Pryd.
Bransen considered the structure before him as he silently came over the wall. Castle Pryd was not large, really just a solid and thick central keep with a trio of smaller one-storey wings about it. Bransen knew the building fairly well, particularly the keep itself. He noted a light burning in a narrow window on the third and top floor and recognized that as the room once belonging to Laird Prydae and to Laird Pryd before him. Bannagran would have taken it as his own, Bransen surmised, and so he moved quiet as a whisper across the courtyard to the corner where the two nearest wings met at the base of the keep. There, he fell into the malachite magic and began his spiderlike climb, first to the roof of one of the low wings, then, when he was confident that no sentries were looking his way, up the tower itself.
He picked his way along the cracks in the stone, his strong grip easily finding handholds sufficient to support his nearly weightless body. He went beside a window about halfway up and glanced in, noting the stairway where he had once, long ago, pursued Laird Prydae, where Master Bathelais had tried to lash at him with gemstone lightning, but had been stopped by the courage of Reandu.
It seemed like a lifetime ago to the young man who had known such an adventurous and interesting year.
“A year,” Bransen mouthed silently. “Just a year.” How much had changed!
His nostalgia flew away then as he noted a figure climbing the stairway. He quickly moved back from the window so that he would not be noticed, a dark silhouette against a lighter sky, for the man carried no torch.
He carried no torch. . . .
Why would that be? Bransen tried to find a logical explanation for that. The stairs were steep, dark, and treacherous. Why would anyone climb them on a dark night without a source of light?
Bransen held his breath, hearing footsteps, very light, made by no boot. He dared move his head back to get an angled look at the window and just noted the man’s passage, seeing no more than the back of his pant leg.
Silken and black.
Bransen had to remind himself to breathe. He thought of going right into the window behind the Hou-lei, but he scaled the side instead, rushing up hand over hand. All notion of stealth fled in his rush, and before he had gone five feet he heard shouting from the courtyard below. He ignored it and pressed on until he was staring into Bannagran’s room on the keep’s top floor.
Bannagran slumped in a wide chair before the hearth, an open and nearly empty bottle in his hand. He might have been asleep, and certainly he was near to dozing. Behind him, directly across the room from Bransen, the door eased open and the black-clothed assassin slipped in. The Hou-lei warrior paused right there, for beside the door sat a rack of knives.
He took one and eased his way toward the clueless Laird of Pryd.
Bransen could hardly register the scene unfolding before him. His mind darted in a hundred different directions all at once. Would the death of Bannagran benefit Dame Gwydre and Honce? Was this acceptable justice for the man who had murdered his father? Should he allow it? Could he stop it?
By the time he blinked the myriad questions aside, Bransen figured that he had been stupefied for too long, that the choice had been taken from him. His hesitation had decided his course.
Or not.
“Bannagran!” he shouted, flinging himself through the window, a forward roll that brought him back to his feet and in a dead run at the seated Laird of Pryd.
Bannagran’s eyes went wide with terror, and he threw his hands up before him as Bransen roared in . . . and leaped above him, diagonally over his wide chair. Bransen landed before the assassin, who lashed at him with the knife. Instinct alone saved the Highwayman, as he pulled up short and threw his head to the side, leaning away just out of reach.
The assassin reversed his grip smoothly and chopped a backhand. The Highwayman again ducked his head and shoulders back, but this time he snapped his right arm up vertically inside the reach of the knife so that it connected, forearm to forearm, with the assassin. At the same time, Bransen brought his left arm across his chest, then swept it before him as he shoved a backhand with his right, a powerful crossing motion of his arms.
His satisfaction as the knife went flying lasted only as long as it took him to realize, at the painful end of a lifted foot, that the assassin had surrendered the knife willingly in exchange for the clean strike.
Bransen staggered backward, trying to stand straight and keep his defenses up. Tears welled in his eyes as explosions of pain and waves of numbness washed over him from his smashed groin. His opponent saw his vulnerability and came on hard, striking with open palms, kneeing and kicking.
Sheer terror stole the pain from Bransen, and he worked furiously to counter and block, falling fast into a smooth rhythm. Many heartbeats passed before he even realized that he had caught up to his opponent’s swift and accurate moves.
The Highwayman could hardly believe that he had suffered no serious or debilitating strikes as the two settled into a more measured and balanced routine. Wahloon was good, very good, and kept the initiative, pressing forward, fingers stabbing. He swung a right hook and kept going around when the punch didn’t land. It seemed almost as if he were screwing himself into the ground, for as he spun, he went down low in a crouch.
Instinctively, Bransen hopped, and just in time, as Wahloon’s leg swept harmlessly under him. Bransen landed gracefully and in a powerful pivot position, left foot forward. Immediately, he rotated his hips and kicked out with his right, but the assassin, rising fast, had his hands in place to double block, and it was all Bransen could do to stop from having his foot grabbed and caught. Still, as he brought his foot in, he kept his presence of mind enough to reverse his momentum and go forward with his upper body, jabbing left and right with a flurry of strikes.
Wahloon leaned back out of reach, his open hands blocking and slapping at the punching Highwayman, who kept coming forward, for Bransen was determined to press his advantage while he had the assassin backing and somewhat off balance.
Wahloon launched into a backflip, kicking out as he turned horizontal, a surprising strike that clipped Bransen high on one arm and slowed his pursuit. Over went the assassin to land on his feet, and he bounced away into a second somersault, this one sidelong and high and right over another of the cushiony chairs.
Bransen dismissed his surprise, even admiration, at the graceful and balanced retreat, and went in fast pursuit. He lowered his shoulder and barreled into the chair, sending it skidding and tumbling at the assassin, who promptly leaped and somersaulted again, tucking tight in a forward roll that landed him right back in place, the chair now behind him and his opponent rushing in.
Both men struck with fury and amazing speed, hands and f
eet becoming a blur of motion, slapping and snapping against each other with great force.
Sobered by the commotion and the shock, Bannagran circled the combatants. He tried to follow their movements but found himself standing with his mouth agape at the beauty and power and ferociousness of the dance. He heard the slaps more than he actually saw them.
Down went the Highwayman in a spinning descent, his leg stabbing out at the Behr warrior’s knee. Wahloon barely turned his leg enough so that the kick didn’t shatter that joint. As if he hadn’t even been hit, the warrior came forward over Bransen as the Highwayman tried to rise, his hands jabbing down hard like the talons of a hawk, stabbing and grabbing.
Bannagran stumbled to the side, circling back in front of the hearth and hoping to get around to the door. He heard shouting and knew his guards were on their way.
He knew, too, that the Highwayman had just saved his life.
Bransen’s hands worked in tight, circular patterns above and before him as he stood back up, deflecting the many strikes of Wahloon. The assassin’s continuous straightforward angling surprised him, for surely the man could have arced a hook or two around his hands to score a painful hit. But Wahloon remained strangely focused, every strike going for Bransen’s forehead.
Every strike or every grab?
That notion hit Bransen hard as he finally came up even, the two resuming their furious exchange. The assassin kept going for his forehead. The assassin was trying to strip away Bransen’s bandanna and gemstone!
Wahloon leaped and somersaulted again, twisting about as Bransen turned sidelong to the left and went over the other way, the two crossing paths upside down in midair, both punching out as they did. As soon as he landed, Bransen pivoted around backward, launching a circle kick.
So did Wahloon, the two kicking feet slamming together. Bransen hopped off his right foot and rotated his hips, sending that foot out behind him as he landed on his left, and when Wahloon did likewise, the two hooked their right legs at the ankles. Both tugged and they came together hard, clawing and striking every inch of the way. And again, Wahloon went for Bransen’s bandanna.
Bransen let him. The Highwayman fell into himself, into his ki-chi-kree, and mentally separated himself from the soul stone even as Wahloon’s grasping hand ripped the bandanna and stone away. Bransen staggered, seeming out of control, and Wahloon struck, a leaping circle kick that would have smashed the side of Bransen’s head with enough force to snap his neck.
Except that in the instant it took Wahloon to leap and spin, the Highwayman wasn’t there. Bransen had dropped straight down into a crouch, so low that his butt brushed the ground. He could feel his line of life energy twitching—it wanted to break apart—but he held it firm and came up and forward with tremendous power and speed, punching out with a strong right, burying his fist into the descending Wahloon’s groin. The assassin jerked out and back and somehow, with great effort and discipline, managed to land standing.
But that was a mistake, for Bransen continued to drive upward, and when he was standing, he threw himself into the air, flipping over and double-kicking out as he came around. He hit Wahloon with both feet, soles crashing in against the man’s shoulders and throwing him backward into the side of Bannagran’s chair.
Even worse for the dazed assassin, he landed right before Laird Bannagran, who had reached into the hearth and produced a smoking log from the low-burning fire.
Bannagran met the falling assassin with a heavy swing, the log cracking Wahloon’s skull, snapping his neck, and stopping cold his momentum. He swung about weirdly, twisting and collapsing to the floor in an awkward heap. And there he lay very still.
Bannagran looked up at Bransen, looked past Bransen to the guards bursting in the door. He held up his hand to keep them at bay as they leveled their spears at the Highwayman’s back.
“I suppose you expect my gratitude,” Bannagran said to Bransen.
Out of breath, hurting in many places, and trying hard to keep his line of life energy from scattering, Bransen could only shrug before he sank down to one knee.
“Get this fool out of my sight,” Bannagran instructed the guards, who lifted their spears and rushed to flank Bransen, left and right. “Not that fool,” Bannagran scolded, and he kicked the dead assassin in the side of the head. “This one!”
They rushed over and began dragging Wahloon’s body away, and Bannagran tossed the log, its bark red with blood and bits of brain matter, back into the hearth. The laird shook his head as Bransen managed to pull himself back to his feet. He glanced to the side and noted Bransen’s bandanna, the gray stone sitting on the floor nearby. Never taking his eyes off the dangerous Highwayman, Bannagran walked over and picked up the stone and cloth.
Bransen reached out for them from across the way, but Bannagran scoffed and held them close.
“He . . . h . . . he would have killed you,” Bransen reminded, his voice unsteady, Stork-like.
“I’ve saved a thousand men, and a hundred have saved me,” Bannagran replied. “That is the way of war. You betrayed Ethelbert’s assassin because it benefitted you; do not pretend any friendship or kinship to me as the cause.”
Bransen closed his eyes and tried to regain his steadiness.
“Do you have anything to say before I have my guards drag you away? Or should I just throw you back out the window and be done with you?”
“Did you deserve my efforts here?” Bransen answered with a question of his own. “Is the life of the Laird of Pryd worth fighting for?”
“What idiocy?”
“Is the life of the man who murdered my father worth my time or effort?” Bransen asked. He opened his eyes and glared at Bannagran. “Are you the beast you so stubbornly insist that you are, Bannagran of Pryd?”
“Your father? Garibond Womak?” Bannagran snickered. “Are we back to that, Highwayman?” He snorted with clear derision and walked over to retrieve his great axe, which rested against the side of the hearth. “Too long have I suffered your whimpers. Your father, my friend Prydae—it would seem that we have little to say, then. So come on and be done with it. I will be rid of you at long last, or I will—”
“Be dead,” Bransen finished for him. “And that does not strike fear into the heart of Bannagran the brave, does it?”
“We’re all dying, fool.”
“Aye, but your lack of fear is not because of Bannagran the brave. It took me a long time to understand that about you.”
“Back to idiocy, I see,” Bannagran said, and he maneuvered his chair back into place, which put it between himself and Bransen.
“You are not afraid of dying because you are a coward,” Bransen accused.
“Do tell,” the laird replied, amused.
“I know you, Bannagran, because I know myself. You look at me and you stare into a mirror.”
Bannagran scoffed even louder.
“Cowards, both,” Bransen insisted. “Neither of us has ever found the courage to lead. We are servants because we are afraid.”
“I am the Laird of Pryd. I thought you knew that.”
“You are the servant of Yeslnik, as you were the servant of Laird Prydae and of Laird Pryd before him. You can lead armies, but you are no leader.”
“You babble.”
“And I can outfight almost any man in Honce,” Bransen went on. “But like Bannagran, when I serve no laird or dame, I serve only myself. The Highwayman of Pryd Town held no responsibility for the folk he claimed to champion. In truth . . .” He paused, lowered his gaze, and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. When he looked back up, he was somewhat surprised to find a look of intrigue on Bannagran’s face. Perhaps it was the liquor, perhaps the rescue, but whatever the reason, Bransen knew that he could not let this slim opportunity pass. “In truth, I cared nothing for the injustices served upon them by your friend, Laird Prydae. How many maidens did he drag to his bedroom? And not one did the Highwayman rescue other than Cadayle, my love. Even when I stole food and money and gave it ba
ck to the folk of Pryd, I did so only to anger Laird Pryd.”
“I could have you executed for this admission.”
“You could have taken my head several times, Laird Bannagran, with or without cause, and always with the blessing of King Yeslnik. In fact, it is exactly your hesitance that has led me to this place and this time, with Dame Gwydre beside me.”
“On a fool’s errand.”
Bransen shook his head. “You are better than this role you have played, like the palace dog doing tricks for the spoiled child that is Yeslnik.”
“We are back to this,” Bannagran interrupted. “I already gave my answer to the woman who holds your leash. Your desperation shines darkly on your cause. Did you really think to march into Pryd Town and turn me to your side, to trade one master for another?” He held up his hands and closed his eyes, then shook his head fiercely and glowered at the Highwayman. “I have told you more than once to be gone from this place, on penalty of death.”
“Hear me, Laird Bannagran, I beg,” Bransen pleaded. “I just saved your life and ask only that you hear me out fully.”
“I know everything you mean to say, and it bores me, as you bore me. You want me to turn against King Yeslnik in the desperate hope that we might put Dame Gwydre on the throne of Honce—Dame Gwydre, who knows nothing of the land and people south of the Gulf of Corona, and they know nothing of her. Dame Gwydre, who is just a name, after all. King Yeslnik has won the day. You know it to be true. The best advice you might offer to your precious lady is that she sue for peace and beg forgiveness. Her cause is lost.”