The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
“What of the other four?”
Bannagran shrugged again. “Keerson will not walk again without a limp, but beyond that, they will all recover with time. Except for their wits, perhaps, for they claim the martial prowess of this one to be beyond belief. He was possessed of the strength of ten men, they said, and he fought so quickly that it seemed as if there were three of him.”
“They would say that to save their drunken pride, though, wouldn’t they?”
Bannagran shrugged.
“Who was it?”
“He called himself the Highwayman.”
“Wonderful.” Prydae slammed his fists down on the desk.
“He is one man,” Bannagran reminded.
“Who defeated five—unarmed when they were not.”
“Five staggering drunks.”
Prydae nodded, having to accept that.
“Our guests are waiting,” said Bannagran. “We should not linger; I doubt that Father Jerak will be able to remain much longer.”
“Does he even know where he is?”
“Doubtful. And if we don’t get him out of here, it is likely he will shit himself soon enough.”
Prydae laughed, then moved to the hearth at the side of the room and pulled the fabulous sword from its perch and slid it into his belt at his left hip. “Lead on,” he bade his friend, and he fell into step behind the man who would announce him. Before they even began to descend the stairs of the tall keep, Prydae reached out and grabbed Bannagran’s shoulder, stopping him. “We should go out in full splendor in the morning,” he said. “It has been too long since I worked my chariot team.”
“A show of strength to assure the people?”
“And to warn this Highwayman. Let him realize the terrible end of the road he has chosen to walk.”
Chapel Pryd was strangely quiet the next day as Bransen went about his chores, collecting the chamber pots and setting them by the back wall. Not a monk seemed to be anywhere, except the one who served as attendant to Father Jerak, and the old man himself, apparently worn out from the excursion of the previous day.
Bransen wasn’t using the soul stone, though he missed it dreadfully, as he missed walking straight and missed the sensation of running. Secretly, he never wanted to assume the posture of the Stork ever again. But playing his alter ego, this Highwayman, was physically exhausting to him, and, beyond that, he had no idea of how the brothers might react to his newfound health, nor to his pilfering their sacred gemstone. He had noticed, however, that even without the soul stone firmly secured against his forehead, he was finding a bit more control of his movements with every day. In Jhesta Tu terms, and using Jhesta Tu technique, Bransen was finding more and more solidity to his line of chi. With his meditation and focus, he could form that line and hold it, albeit for only short periods; but even when he was not consciously engaged in such Jhesta Tu disciplines, he found that his line of life energy wasn’t dispersing quite as widely and wildly as before.
Given that, Bransen found himself in the strange position of consciously exaggerating his storklike movements. He wasn’t quite sure why he should not reveal the changes he was experiencing, but he had a feeling that his cover as a helpless creature would serve him well for the time being.
On his fourth trip to the back wall, a chamber pot sloshing at the end of each arm, Bransen found the six previous pots still sitting there untended and unemptied. He put the two new additions down and looked about curiously. Where was his helper?
Bransen moved back into the main areas of the chapel’s first floor and was struck again by how empty the place seemed. Not a brother was to be seen or heard. He staggered through all the main rooms, finding them unoccupied. He went to the front door of the chapel, which was opened wide, and glanced out into the courtyard, with its twin trees, left and right of the cobblestone path.
He was about to go back in and head right up to Father Jerak’s attendant to inquire about it all, but then he heard the bells ringing and the trumpets blowing out in the town. Curious beyond any fear of breaking the rules, or of simple good judgment, Bransen moved down the chapel steps and across the courtyard to the open outer gate.
He saw many of the monks lining the main road of Pryd Town. He picked out Bathelais and Reandu among the throng, and it was indeed a throng, with all of the folk out there, waving and cheering. The Stork made his awkward way to Reandu and reached the brother just as the trumpets began to blow with even more urgency.
“Stork,” Reandu greeted. “What are you doing out here?”
Bransen couldn’t tell if the man was angry or merely surprised. “I-I-I…I didn-didn-didn’t kno-kno—”
“Never mind,” said Brother Reandu and he put his hand on Bransen’s shoulder to quiet him. “Perhaps it is better that you came out. You should see the glory of Laird Prydae revealed!” As he finished, he pulled Bransen forward and helped him settle in place right at the road’s edge. He even helped Bransen to steady his head and look toward the castle, where the procession had begun.
First came the soldiers of Pryd in their full regalia, bronze armor dully shining in the sunlight. They carried long spears, holding them vertical, gleaming tips up high and in perfect alignment with one another, showing the splendor of the discipline of these best-trained soldiers of Laird Prydae. The laird’s various commanders walked along the side of the tight formation, calling orders and warning back any peasants who stepped too far out from the roadside.
Bransen watched in amazement as the procession paraded by, boots thumping the ground in unison.
Behind the common soldiers came three horsemen, including one Bransen knew well enough in the center. Bannagran seemed even more huge and more imposing on his armored mount! And clearly the legendary warrior commanded the attention of all the onlookers.
That is, until the man behind him appeared. In a chariot more grand than the one he had lost in the war all those years earlier, and with a team of two large and strong horses, Laird Prydae seemed the most splendid of all. He wore a new breastplate, replacing the many-nicked one that had gone off to the powrie war. This one, again of bronze, and again emblazoned with the running wolves, was studded with jewels that caught the sunlight in bursts of radiance. He wore an open-faced helm with a horsetail-like plume, dyed red. But armor, helm, and chariot seemed not to matter much when he drew forth his shining steel sword. He held it aloft and the crowd gasped and cheered and as one pointed at the marvelous weapon.
That sword could cut through a plate of bronze armor, so it was rumored, and it could fell a small tree with a single powerful stroke. That sword, it was whispered all around Bransen, would keep the powries at bay and make any imperialistic-minded laird tremble at the mere thought of warring with Pryd Holding.
That sword…was the sword of Bransen’s mother.
The emotions sweeping through Bransen as he watched the procession and the proud laird were very different from those of the people around him. They saw inspiration; they showed awe. But for Bransen, there was only the sudden realization that this sword did not belong with the Laird of Pryd. This sword, his mother’s sword, was his own to claim.
And so he would, he determined, and that very night.
When the chapel monks had all settled into their beds, the Highwayman, dressed in black, a soul stone pressed against his forehead by his tight mask, slipped silently out of Chapel Pryd and moved through the shadows to the wall of the great castle itself.
Bransen watched the wall top for signs of sentries, trying to spot their dark silhouettes against the moonlit sky. All seemed quiet.
He fell into his meditation, recalling the lesson in the Book of Jhest, recalling the day he had spent at the desk when first he had taken the soul stone. He considered the many revelations of the various gemstones, recalling the properties of malachite. Bransen gathered his chi and lifted it, replicating the levitational energy of malachite. He felt almost as if he were floating, though of course he was not. But he was lighter, his life energy ba
Bransen lifted a hand to the stone wall, found a slight fingerhold, and propelled himself upward. Hand over hand he went, easily and spiderlike, needing no more than the ridge between two stones to provide him enough of a grip to move past.
He reached the top of the wall in short order and glanced all around. With no guards in sight, he moved silently along the wall to the point where it joined with the large keep. This tower was Prydae’s own, Bransen had learned from various discussions among the monks over the years, and so this was likely where he would find his mother’s precious sword. Again, he fell inside of himself and lifted his energy skyward, walking up the wall.
He passed one window and peered in, but saw nothing of interest in the candlelight. Up higher, he decided, and he moved along. As he neared the next window, this one along the back of the tower, he heard voices from within.
“A fine show, my liege,” said a deep voice. Bannagran’s, perhaps, Bransen thought.
“Every now and then, they need to be reminded,” came the reply, a voice that Bransen did not know, dour and serious and gravelly with age.
“Perhaps it is a reminder that I need, as well,” said a third, whom Bransen recognized as Laird Prydae. It also struck the young man that the laird’s voice was quite somber. “I do not miss the sound and smell of battle,” Prydae went on. “Yet I cannot dismiss the thrill that courses my body when I drive my chariot and draw my sword.”
“It gives hope to the people,” said the voice Bransen believed to be that of Bannagran. “You are their protector.”
“And their laird, with all the privileges that entails,” said the old voice. “The woman you chose along the parade route awaits you in your chambers, my liege. Use her well.”
“My blood is hot with the sound of trumpets and cheers,” Prydae said. “Perhaps this, at long last, will be the night for consummation.”
Bransen heard the tink of goblets tapped in toast, and a moment later, the sound of footsteps receding, followed by the bang of a heavy door closing. He waited a bit longer before edging toward the window and peering in.
The room was dark, with only the glowing embers of the fire remaining to add to the slanted rays of moonlight that were sliding in through the narrow window.
Bransen held his position and glanced all around and down. Still he saw no guards walking sentry. After a few more moments of silence, he slipped into the room.
He moved away from the window, crouching in the darkness and allowing his eyes to adjust. Gradually, the distinctive shapes within the room came into clearer focus: the closed door across the way, the chairs before the hearth off to his left, the hearth itself.
And something set on the wall above the hearth.
Bransen sucked in his breath. Had good fortune shone upon him? Had he wandered into the very room that contained his mother’s sword?
Silent as a shadow, he slipped to the hearth and saw the outline on the wall. It was a sword, a long sword, too long for bronze or iron.
Behind him to the right, the door banged open, and he saw the steel of the fine blade flash with the sudden intrusion of torchlight.
Bransen swung around to see a surprised Bannagran standing just inside the door, torch in hand and wearing only a tunic and loose breeches. The man’s eyes were so wide that they seemed as if they might roll out of their sockets, and his jaw drooped open. But that dumfounded expression fast twisted into a wicked grin.
“Was it the Ancient Ones of the Samhaists or Blessed Abelle that put you here in my grasp?” the large man asked as he quickly set the torch into a bracket beside the door. “For truly such good fortune as this falls within the realm of divine miracle!”
He balled his huge fists and rushed forward.
Bransen sprang over the chair behind him, putting more ground and now two chairs between himself and the charging warrior. He landed in a defensive crouch and easily ducked away as Bannagran lifted one of the chairs and threw it at him. Then he hopped aside as the second chair flew through the air, swept away by the wrath of the powerful Bannagran.
The mighty warrior waded in with a wide-arcing left hook that the nimble Highwayman easily ducked, then came with a straight cross. Bransen’s hand knifed up to deflect the blow, but Bannagran would not be so easily deterred. He launched a straight left and followed with a right, then back and forth in a sudden and vicious flurry, barreling forward like an angry bull.
Up came the Highwayman’s hands one after the other, slapping left and slapping right, and ducking and swerving. A couple of glancing blows clipped him, but only at first, only while he was acting with his conscious mind instead of letting himself fall into the teachings of the Book of Jhest.
As the rhythm of the book flowed through his body, as his concentration became a pure interaction between mind and body, a fusing of the mental and the physical, and again it almost seemed to him as if his opponent were moving under water. Even the expressions of Bannagran’s face as he roared in increasing frustration seemed an exaggerated, slow-moving thing, as the roar itself seemed to stretch out in the Highwayman’s ears.
Now Bransen dared to counter, getting his hand up inside Bannagran’s punch, deflecting it and launching one of his own. He hit the big man once, twice, thrice about the head with short, snapping jabs.
But Bannagran pressed on, ignoring the blows. And as he stepped forward, he dropped his right shoulder and launched a roundhouse punch that seemed to come from his ankle, his heavy right hand swooping in for the side of the Highwayman’s head.
A right jab smacked into Bannagran’s nose, but the big man didn’t flinch. The Highwayman, in trying to drive his opponent back, didn’t duck but bent his arm, his wrist against his ear to cover.
It was a perfectly executed block, a detailed maneuver in the Book of Jhest. But neither that book nor the Highwayman had taken into account the strength difference between the diminutive Bransen and the giant and powerful Bannagran. Bransen’s arm blocked the punch, but the weight of the blow sent him flying sideways. He staggered and nearly fell, but instead threw himself into a sidelong roll that brought him back to his feet near the wall.
In charged Bannagran, fists flying, but suddenly Bransen wasn’t in front of him. Bannagran only began to understand how completely Bransen had out-maneuvered him when he felt the weight of the man in black crashing against his legs, tripping him headlong into the wall. He managed to get his arms up to absorb some of the jolt.
He spun immediately, launching a wide-flying right hook.
Bransen ducked it, dropping so low that his butt nearly touched the ground. Up he sprang into the air, lashing out with his feet, one and then the other.
But as he landed, he found that he had done little damage to Bannagran, for the big man went right back to the attack. And now he was altering the angles of his strikes, high and low, and seemed perfectly willing to accept Bransen’s stinging counters.
Bransen’s ear ached from the last blow, and he understood that it wouldn’t take many hits from Bannagran to drop him!
The flurry intensified; Bannagran snapped off a series of crosses, then dropped and repeated with three left jabs in a row, though Bransen brought his knee up to block. Up went Bannagran, and Bransen jumped back a step, then came back in, his hands rotating in overlapping circles before him, offering no openings.
A left jab snapped in, and Bransen turned it, retracted his hand, and started to counter. Then he saw the blood pouring from his fingers, and then he noticed that Bannagran’s hand was no longer empty. Bransen leaped back, glancing from the cut to Bannagran, to the long knife that the man now held.
A sweeping crosscut had Bransen sucking in his gut and leaping backward. Bannagran charged ahead, stabbing hard, but Bransen went around the outstretched arm in a quick roll, then sprinted past the man for the wall.
Bannagran cried out in victory and turned to pursue, then watched in amazement as the Highwayman seemed to run right up the wall, springing dir
He landed right before the hearth, grabbed the magnificent sword by the pommel, and turned to face Bannagran. With a grin, Bransen yanked the sword in an upward and sliding motion, its fine edge easily severing the two leather ties securing it to the upturned hooks.
Bannagran skidded to a stop.
“You drew first,” the Highwayman chided. “I was content to embarrass you with open hand. Now it seems I must kill you.” As he finished, the Highwayman leveled the deadly blade Bannagran’s way. “Which will you pray to, mighty Bannagran? The Ancient Ones or Blessed Abelle?”
The Highwayman took a fast step forward, thrusting the blade; but Bannagran leaped back, caught a chair by the arm, and whipped it across to block. Then, with strength beyond anything Bransen had ever seen, the big man stopped his swinging arm suddenly and threw the chair.
The Highwayman dodged it, barely, and spun in a pirouette, then fell into another defensive crouch.
But Bannagran hadn’t pursued; he had run back to the open door, shouting for the guards. Bransen heard a commotion out there.
He ran to the window, turned to salute the big man, and promised, “We two will fight again, sword to sword or fist to fist!” Then he went out.
But not down.
Like a spider, the Highwayman moved to the side of the window and then up. He reached the top and pulled himself over even as the head of a guardsman poked out the window and began looking all around at the ground. “Did he fall?” the man cried.
Bransen put his back against the crenelated tower top and lifted the gleaming sword before his eyes. He felt the smooth steel and the keen edge and marveled at the beauty of the etchings running the length of the blade. This was the work of his mother as surely as the copy of the Book of Jhest had been created by his father. Bransen didn’t know the technique that had gone into making this sword, of course, the folded steel and precise and disciplined toil. He didn’t know that it had taken his mother years to craft it.