The Bear by R. A. Salvatore
“I told you to summon these two, Palfry, not to excite them,” Ethelbert said with a slight chuckle. “You know how hot run the humors of Myrick and Tyne!”
“Yes, laird,” Palfry said, lowering his eyes.
“What do you think, Kirren?” Ethelbert asked. “Should we let Myrick sink this boat from Vanguard and just kill the emissaries, or cut off their heads as Tyne suggests?”
Kirren Howen’s eyes went wide with surprise.
Quite the diplomat, are you not?” Cormack scolded Dawson again when they and Milkeila were alone in the captain’s private room on Lady Dreamer.
Dawson snorted. “Speaks the man who told Ethelbert he couldn’t win the war.”
“What choice was I given after Dawson proclaimed Gwydre the Queen of Honce?”
“I didn’t sail halfway around the world to parse my words, monk,” said Dawson.
“His temperament might have been more calm if we’d brought Callen Duwornay,” Milkeila suggested softly, not looking at them.
Both men gaped at her, then laughed aloud, the tension broken. The budding love between Dawson McKeege, Dame Gwydre’s most trusted advisor, and Callen, the mother-in-law of the rogue known as the Highwayman, was, after all, the worst-kept secret on the Mirianic.
“It was a dangerous play,” Cormack said after a bit, as Dawson broke out a jug of his rum and three wooden mugs.
“The world’s burning, front to back,” Dawson replied, handing Milkeila her mug first. It pleased him for some reason each time he remembered that this woman from Alpinador could drink the both of them under the table.
“A play no less dangerous than Cormack’s follow,” Milkeila said in her somewhat shaky command of the Honce tongue. She brought the mug up, dipped a finger into it, and closed her eyes.
“Now why do you do that?” Dawson asked. “A bit of barbarian magic to take the bite away?”
Milkeila merely smiled as she always did when Dawson asked that predictable question. She took a great swallow of the rum, nearly draining the considerable mug.
“She cheats,” Dawson said to Cormack.
“At everything,” Milkeila’s husband agreed. “That’s why I keep her by my side.”
“Oh, I’m knowin’ why you keep her by your side, monk. Too many days in a chapel full of men.”
Both men looked at Milkeila as Dawson finished the crude remark, but both knew better than to expect a blush from this warrior, strong with the spear and her shamanistic magic and secure and comfortable in her skin.
“What I’m wondering is why she’s keeping you,” Dawson finished, raising his mug in toast to Milkeila, who smiled and returned the lift.
“For once we agree,” said Cormack.
“Your words with Laird Ethelbert were correct,” Milkeila said. “We should state our case openly with that one. He will see any deception, and he knows more about us than we believe.”
“Now where do you get that?” asked Dawson.
Milkeila just stared at him hard, gradually directing his gaze to Cormack.
“The woman from Behr,” Cormack explained. “Her sword.”
“Looked a lot like Bransen’s sword,” said Dawson.
“Such swords are common in Behr, perhaps,” Cormack offered.
“When we see her again, seek a vantage to peer beneath the left fold of her blouse,” Milkeila advised.
“Why would I be doing that, aside from her obvious charms?” asked Dawson.
“I’m not sure,” Milkeila replied. “Just a hint, perhaps, and a guess. Laird Ethelbert is no fool. He has survived the overwhelming force of Laird Delaval and several times seemed almost on the edge of victory.”
“True enough,” Cormack said. “He is cornered and in a desperate place, but let us not underestimate him.”
“Or those around him,” Milkeila added. “We have witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman, and if Laird Ethelbert’s bodyguards are of equal skill they will be formidable.”
“If they’re half as good as that one they could sink my ship by themselves,” Dawson agreed and drained his wooden mug.
I would, laird,” Myrick the Bold said. “At your word, my archers will sweep the deck. . . .”
He stopped under the mocking laughter of Laird Ethelbert.
“My laird?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, we should kill every one of them!” Ethelbert said with sarcastic exuberance, which melted into a self-deprecating, lonely chuckle. “They committed the greatest crime of all.”
The three generals looked to each other with mounting confusion, and Kirren Howen finally asked, “Laird?”
“They told the truth,” Ethelbert explained. He wasn’t looking at them as he spoke, rather staring off into the empty corner of the room. “The greatest crime of all, to tell a laird the truth.”
Another sad laugh ensued. When Ethelbert lifted his glass to his lips, his hand trembled severely. “Especially an old laird,” he finished, looking back at the three.
“What would you have me do, laird?” an exasperated Myrick asked.
“Think,” came the simple response.
Myrick and Tyne exchanged confused looks, but when they turned to Kirren Howen they saw that he understood. His expression revealed his sadness.
“So this is how we lose,” Ethelbert said. “A much softer fall than we had expected, yes, Kirren?”
“Perhaps no fall at all,” the general replied. “Do you trust their promises of autonomy?”
Ethelbert paused, then chuckled again, then shrugged. “Have I a choice? Truly?”
“Yes, laird!” said Tyne. “Send them away! Or send their heads away!”
“Our enemy gathers in the west,” Ethelbert replied. “Our allies north along the coast have been ravaged. We’ll find no reinforcements from Felidan Bay or the Mantis Arm. Yeslnik has razed those towns immediately west of us, so we’ll find no support, supplies, or warriors should we choose to march. What is left to us, then? To wait here until the armies storm our gates once more?”
“A better deal with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan, then,” said Kirren Howen.
Ethelbert nodded, looking very old. “More assurances, perhaps.”
“King Ethelbert!” said Myrick the Bold.
The old laird laughed again but then steadied himself and straightened more fully than they had seen in many weeks. “It will not be,” he replied, his voice strong. He held up his nearly empty glass. “Be of good cheer, my friends,” he said, and he waited for them to return the toast. “For hope has come to us on a boat from Vanguard, and the fool Yeslnik has turned the church against his designs. No more do we fight alone!”
He drained his glass, then threw it against the stone wall, his old eyes sparkling as if reflecting the shattering and flying shards. “Go and retrieve our guests. Myrick, and Tyne, bring me Father Destros and Affwin Wi. Bid her to drag that angry Merwal Yahna along with her.”
The two looked at each other in confusion, and Ethelbert said, “Go! Go!” and waved them away.
“Bid for better terms,” Kirren Howen said when they were alone.
The old laird nodded, though he understood that he and Kirren Howen would not be in agreement over what those better terms might be. The wily old general was still thinking of Ethelbert as the King of Honce, as Ethelbert himself had been only a day before—assuming, of course, they managed to find some way to defeat Yeslnik of Delaval and his overwhelming garrison. With only oblivion or flight to Behr as the alternative to absolute victory, Ethelbert had held fast his dream of ruling the whole of the land. What would happen, after all, to his people, to Kirren Howen and poor Palfry, if anything other than that unlikely scenario came to fruition? No, losing to Yeslnik was simply unthinkable.
But now another possibility had rudely entered the equation, a third way, perhaps, and as if a great responsibility had been lifted from Ethelbert’s tired old shoulders, the words of Dawson McKeege, crude and blunt as they had been, had invigorated his spirits.
Kirren Howen wanted him to bargain for greater power, a more prominent role, and perhaps even to fight for his well-earned right to the throne, should their alliance prove victorious, but Ethelbert, though he meant to play it out, was more concerned with those he would soon leave behind. A large part of him, the old and tired man, just wanted to agree to the terms the emissaries had brought and be done with it. But when he looked at Kirren Howen, so long his friend and companion, who had sailed with him and fought beside him for all these years, Laird Ethelbert had to nod his agreement.
He threw a wink to his general when the others began making their way into the room. “Better terms,” he whispered so that only Kirren Howen could hear.
“Glad we are that you have arrived,” Ethelbert said when all had gathered. “I admit to knowing little about your Dame Gwydre, though I am certain that you would regale me the day through with tales of her honor and strength were I to give you the chance.”
“At least a day,” Dawson said.
Kirren Howen and the other two generals grimaced at the interruption, but Ethelbert just laughed it off.
“I’ve not the time,” he replied. “But pray do tell me, Dawson of Vanguard, is your lady as crass and irreverent as her emissary?”
For the first time it seemed as if Ethelbert had taken Dawson off his balance, as the old sea dog stumbled for a reply.
“Dame Gwydre is beloved by her people,” Cormack dared say. “Her bloodline is long and true, good lairds all. Kind and generous.”
“Not traits that will aid us against the wretched Yeslnik,” said Ethelbert.
“But a demeanor that will endear many to her cause as we do battle,” Cormack promised.
“Yes, you have already claimed as much,” the old laird replied doubtfully. “I accept your . . . impatience as a call to action, but of course I cannot accept your terms as presented.”
The three emissaries looked to each other nervously.
“You’d have us sail away?” Dawson said.
“If that is your choice. Did you really expect me to cede Honce to you before it is even won?”
“This is the choice of Father Artolivan, and if Honce is to be won it’ll be no small part owed to his doing.”
“And no small part to Dame Gwydre’s, and no small part to the warriors of Ethelbert who have resisted the dominion of Yeslnik and Delaval before him for all these bloody months. More than ten thousand warriors from a multitude of holdings and fighting under my flag have given their lives for King Ethelbert. Am I to disrespect their loyalty and sacrifice?”
“You cannot win.”
“I could take hostage emissaries from Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan and use them to barter with Yeslnik. I doubt that he would give to me any less than Dawson of Vanguard has offered.” Ethelbert let that uncomfortable thought hang in the air for a few heartbeats before breaking the tension with a smile. “But you see, friends, I hate Yeslnik more than you do. I prefer the alliance.”
“We’re not to turn the other lairds to the hoped-for flag of a King Ethelbert,” Dawson reminded. “There’s too much blood on the ground.”
“Tell them to fight for Dame Gwydre or for the monks and Chapel Abelle,” said Ethelbert.
Father Destros shifted uncomfortably.
“Your pardon, Father. For St. Mere Abelle,” the laird clarified.
The monk bowed to Ethelbert.
“I care not of the promises you give to the minor lairds,” said Ethelbert. “But they are not binding to me or to my generals or to my holding. Where was Dame Gwydre when Delaval declared himself King of Honce?”
“Warring with Samhaists, trolls, goblins, and barbarians in the north!” said Dawson.
“Only I slowed Delaval’s march,” Ethelbert went on as if Vanguard’s struggles hardly mattered. “Only Laird Ethelbert dared step forth to oppose the tyrant. You say that some of the lairds loyal to Yeslnik may turn to our cause, to Dame Gwydre’s cause, but how many of the lairds now fighting for good Laird Ethelbert will then desert to the more apparent winner?
“So, please, good man Dawson, do not bluster and bluff. Your loyalty to your lady is commendable and speaks well of her and for her. We will need such conviction if we are to prevail over the dastardly Yeslnik. Let us join and complete that deed and then worry over the spoils that may remain.”
“The other lairds—”
“Tell them whatever you would tell them to turn them against Yeslnik,” Ethelbert replied sharply. “Most are not fools and likely hate the foppish pretender already. He is not half the man as his uncle, Laird Delaval. But I will not pledge fealty to your Dame Gwydre or to your church. I will, however, promise not to turn my armies against you once our common foe is defeated in exchange for your like promise.”
Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila exchanged concerned and confused glances.
“Perhaps you should sail back to St. Mere Abelle to deliver the terms,” Laird Ethelbert said. “And then sail back here to tell me if they are agreeable to Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan.”
Dawson sputtered to respond to that absurd notion.
“Then make a decision, Dawson of Vanguard,” Laird Ethelbert demanded. “Here and now, or be gone from my docks.”
Dawson’s weather-beaten face scrunched up as he eyed the old man dangerously.
“Do you think that your Dame Gwydre will be pleased that her man let his wounded pride sever an alliance that we both need?” Ethelbert said simply. He paused for just a moment before adding, “Have we an agreement?”
“You’re everything they said you’d be, old laird,” Dawson replied, his face and posture relaxing. “And aye, we’ll throw in with you to the death of Yeslnik.”
“Palfry, my good lad,” Ethelbert said to his attendant. “A feast is in order to celebrate this union. See to it.”
The young page bowed and ran out of the room.
“Go and retrieve your crew,” Ethelbert said. “A night of celebration and plentiful food will see them well on their way.”
“I would stay, good Laird Ethelbert,” Cormack said. “Along with Milkeila, my wife.” He put his arm about the shaman.
“Your wife?” the old laird repeated with clear skepticism. How many times Ethelbert had witnessed such mixed marriages, although usually between one from Honce and one from Behr. Rarely had they succeeded.
“We will serve here, with your permission, as representatives of the Order of Blessed Abelle and of Dame Gwydre,” Cormack offered.
“Well, indeed,” said Ethelbert, and a sly smile spread across his face. “And given. But can you fight?”
“We can fight.”
Ethelbert nodded and waved them away. Before they had even left the room he turned to Kirren Howen and to Myrick and Tyne, who drew very near. “Prepare a flotilla for Jacintha. I would advise my friends in Behr of the hopeful turn of events.”
“Perhaps they will at last send us more warriors,” said Myrick.
“It is possible,” said Ethelbert, but with obvious skepticism. He looked to Kirren Howen, who nodded to show that he understood the true purpose here: to secure an escape route, should one be necessary, and to bring another possible ally into the mix should Ethelbert and Dame Gwydre prove victorious over Yeslnik.
True to Ethelbert’s word, Dawson’s crew ate well that night at a grand feast in the open market outside the doors of Castel Ethelbert. The laird and his generals attended, but only for a short time.
Long enough, though, for Cormack to finally get near to the woman warrior from Behr. He tried to strike up a conversation with her regarding her heritage and her sword, but she pretended not to understand him and just turned away.
In that turn, however, the former monk got a glimpse under the fold of her black silk blouse and was able to recognize a star-shaped, gem-studded bro
“It’s Bransen’s sword,” Cormack later explained to Dawson on Lady Dreamer’s deck long after the moon had set in the west.
“How do you know?”
“She wears his brooch,” said Milkeila.
“He’s dead, then,” Dawson said, his voice full of regret. “Might be that he was killed by Ethelbert. You two should sail with me, then.”
Cormack shook his head. “Milkeila, perhaps.”
“Not without my husband.”
“Then, no,” said Cormack. “We will be safe here. Father Destros is a man of fine reputation within my order. A man loyal to Father Artolivan.”
“And you want to find out about Bransen,” Dawson reasoned.
“We owe him that much at least.”
“You had best walk with care and question in whispers,” Dawson advised. “If it was Ethelbert who killed him, those answers might get you two tossed into the sea.”
Dawson patted Cormack on the shoulder and gave Milkeila a hug before heading belowdecks to plot his course.
“This is a magnificent city,” Milkeila said to Cormack, following him to Lady Dreamer’s rail.
Unexpectedly, a smile spread on Cormack’s face, and Milkeila didn’t quite understand until the man nodded his chin, prompting her to follow his gaze to the southeast. There, far, far across the dark waters of the great Mirianic Ocean, swirls of colors painted the sky, the legendary aurora that gave Corona its name, the heavenly ring of magical gemstones that God had shown to Blessed Abelle a century before. That gift had sustained the founder of Cormack’s church on a distant deserted island and had returned Abelle to Honce, the blessed man walking on the ocean waters across the many miles. Cormack had heard of the equatorial aurora, of course, and had even seen hints of it from St. Mere Abelle on a couple of occasions, but never had he witnessed it so clearly. Never had its glory shone to him to so lift his heart as now.
“It is beautiful,” Milkeila remarked with awe.
“The fruits of the ring did sustain Blessed Abelle,” Cormack replied. “And so they will sustain us through these dark times.”