The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
“I warn you,” Bathelais cried.
“This is not the way!” Reandu argued, his words popping out in an explosion of breath as Bathelais rammed him hard into the wall. Dazed, he hardly noticed as Bathelais let him go and whirled, rushing back to the railing.
All the world was spinning for Brother Reandu, all his buried notions about right and wrong. Images of Stork flashed through his mind, of the boy’s pleading with him to teach him to read, of the filth and disrespect the boy had long suffered at the hands of the “generous” brothers of Abelle.
He saw Bathelais lifting his arm to loose another lightning bolt, lifting the edges of his mouth in a smile that struck Reandu as very wicked.
He pushed himself out from the wall, shouting at Bathelais to stop. And indeed, the master did hesitate and half turned to regard Reandu’s charge. Master Bathelais tried to get out of the way or to brace himself, but wasn’t successful.
Reandu plowed into him, both of them going hard against the balcony rail, which buckled under their weight.
Bathelais tumbled over the edge and Reandu stood, waving his arms in a effort to keep from falling. He did manage to do that, then looked down in horror at his superior lying on his back on the lower floor, groaning and barely moving.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he leaped to the next balcony, Bransen saw the fall of Bathelais. It hardly registered because it hardly mattered to him. He saw a figure on the last balcony above, rushing through a doorway and heard from within a woman’s cry.
The Highwayman leaped out and high, lifting his chi, lifting himself toward the heavens. He caught his balance on the railing of the top balcony just as the dark figure disappeared into the room and the door started to close. Two strides and a dive had him there in time, shouldering the door open before the locking bar could be secured, and Bransen tumbled into the room. He came up fast, kicking the door shut, the locking bar falling in place.
Bransen jumped up, his back to the door, his sword at the ready.
There stood Laird Prydae before him, stripped to the waist and easing behind the side of a great canopy bed. Bransen could have had him dead in one leap, he knew, but he had to hold, for on the other side of that bed stood Cadayle, wearing only a sheer nightdress, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears, and her head back awkwardly, twisting to avoid the knife that was firmly held at her throat.
Behind her, eyes gleaming with open hatred and a wildness that Bransen had never before witnessed, stood Rennarq.
“Could it be?” Rennarq rasped.
“Let her go,” Bransen demanded.
“The Highwayman is this creature?” Laird Prydae asked, his voice full of mocking disbelief. “All my holding has held its breath in fear of this damaged, half-goblin…thing?”
Bransen kept his eyes locked on Cadayle, ignoring the insults, trying to find some way out. He thought of throwing his sword, but Rennarq had Cadayle locked tight as a shield, with only part of his face showing around her tresses.
“A dangerous little boy, now aren’t you?” said Prydae, and he reached subtly toward his mattress, under which he always kept a dagger.
Bransen noted the move and pointed his sword at Prydae threateningly, but held his advance.
“He loves this one, my liege,” Rennarq noted, and Bransen glanced the old man’s way to see a wicked smile splayed across his wrinkled face. “Yet another victim claimed by the weakness of the heart.”
Bransen steeled his expression at that.
“Is that not so?” Rennarq teased him. “Will you charge at me, brave Highwayman, and cut me to death? Will you slay the Laird of Pryd Holding? No doubt that is your desire, but is it above the price that such an action must cost?” As he finished, he slapped his free hand across Cadayle’s forehead and pulled her head back, revealing more of her vulnerable neck and the dagger firmly pressed against her tender skin.
Bransen found it hard to draw breath.
He jumped, they all did, when something or someone slammed hard against the door behind him. The locking bar held, and the door did not burst open.
“My liege!” they heard Bannagran cry outside, and he began to bang hard on the heavy wooden door.
“I’ll have your sword, Highwayman,” Laird Prydae said, and he extended his hand.
Bransen didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He stared at his helpless love, who shook her head, or started to, before Rennarq tugged her head back viciously and pressed in the dagger.
“Be reasonable, boy,” Laird Prydae went on. “Surrender your sword to me and I will let the woman live. Else she dies, and you will live with that image for the rest of your days, short though they will surely be.”
Bransen looked at him, at his extended hand, though he was too far away for Bransen to hand him the blade.
“Come along now,” Prydae prodded, motioning with his fingers. “Put it on the floor and slide it across to me.”
“Let her go or you die!” Bransen growled.
“Do you think we are afraid of death, foolish boy?” Rennarq answered, stealing Bransen’s bluster before the young man could even begin to gauge Laird Prydae’s reaction to the threat. For when Bransen glanced back at Rennarq, he saw a wildness there that laughed at his threat and a determination that Cadayle’s throat would soon be open wide. There was no hope for negotiation to be found in those dark and angry eyes, Bransen knew, whatever Prydae might say.
The pounding intensified against the door behind him. The buzzing in Bransen’s head began anew.
“Your sword!” Prydae demanded sharply.
Bransen had no answers. Cadayle was doomed if he lunged for either the laird or Rennarq. He couldn’t get to the old man quickly enough, and he knew without doubt that Rennarq would put his knife to deadly use without hesitation.
“Boy, on my word, the woman will live,” Prydae shouted at him, above the crack of wood that now sounded behind Bransen, as if someone had taken an axe to the door. “Surrender your sword now, before my patience comes to its end!”
Bransen’s breath came in gasps. He searched his thoughts and his recollections of the gemstones, but found no answers.
Because there were no answers.
He forced himself to stand straight, then bent and placed the sword on the ground and kicked it across to Laird Prydae.
Cadayle whimpered at the sight, and that, too, was cut short by another tug and press by Rennarq.
Bransen stared at the pair, hardly paying attention to Prydae who scooped up the fabulous sword and readied it.
“Now move away from the door,” Prydae demanded, and another sharp rap and the crack of wood accentuated his words.
But Bransen hardly heard them, keeping his focus on his helpless love and on the wretch who held her and who seemed so full of glee at the thought of tearing out her beautiful throat. A spasm nearly knocked Bransen from his feet then, as his emotions threatened to break the concentration that allowed him to hold himself in check. He tightened his grip on the soul stone and forced himself, for Cadayle’s sake, to regain his complete control.
His line of chi burned brightly within him, excited by anger and terror, vibrating and humming. He could see it clearly as he closed his eyes and looked inside.
“Move aside,” he heard Prydae demand, “away from the door.”
He kept his eyes closed, kept his focus on that line of burning energy. He brought his hands down together in front of him, cupped his free hand, and clenched the soul stone all the tighter. His chi was a tangible thing to him at that moment, a real line and not an imagined one, like a wire that held him together, like a strong cord that kept him upright.
Like a spear.
With a deep exhalation, Bransen fell even further into himself.
“I’ll not tell you again, boy!” Prydae screamed, but Bransen didn’t hear him.
Behind him the door broke apart under another heavy blow, but Bransen didn’t hear it.
Another deep exhalation, and the young man pictured a par
“Move, boy!” Prydae screamed, distantly, it seemed to Bransen.
Cadayle’s gasp sounded more keenly and more closely, but that, too, he pushed aside, as he breathed deeply yet again.
“Kill her!” he heard Prydae command.
Bransen’s eyes opened, and he thrust his hands out toward Cadayle and Rennarq; and with that movement he threw his collected chi, a javelin of his life energy, a bolt of his inner strength.
Rennarq gave a gurgled cry as that tangible energy crashed into him, and his legs buckled, pulling Cadayle down behind him, hard to the floor.
Prydae leaped ahead with a shout, sword jabbing for Bransen’s chest.
Bransen’s left hand slapped the tip aside at the last moment and he turned to counter, but this was no novice he faced but a trained and seasoned warrior.
Prydae retracted the blade and thrust again, and though Bransen again managed to slap the side of the blade, the laird deftly twisted it, cutting a gash in Bransen’s forearm.
Bransen heard a gurgled whimper and realized that Cadayle was hurt.
Prydae struck again, and this time he got the blade through enough to poke a hole in Bransen’s side, forcing him to leap back—and he felt a jolt behind him that nearly had him flying forward to impale himself on Prydae’s blade as the door got smashed again, this time with the axe driving down to crack the locking bar.
Prydae thrust the blade and Bransen fell back against the door and snapped his foot up to deflect the blade. Ahead he charged, thinking he might have an opening, but even as his foot first connected, Prydae was already moving out of reach, falling back and low in a defensive crouch.
“Well fought, boy, but you have no chance!” Prydae cried. To drive his point home, he tried to drive the sword home and might well have succeeded, had not the door burst open behind Bransen, startling them both.
Prydae fell back; behind Bransen, Bannagran roared.
Bransen turned, purely on instinct, leaning back, arms out wide, as he came around. He only half registered the flying, spinning axe, soaring in now for his chest as he came around. And still he leaned, bending his knees, head going back so far that he looked through eyes turned upside down and saw Prydae coming in at him.
A darkness flickered before his eyes, but Bransen did not consciously register it as the spinning axe.
He went down so low that his shoulder blades brushed the floor, and then every muscle in his body reacted to his demand, swinging him back upright, his legs straining to pull.
He immediately went to a defensive stance and started to turn sideways, expecting an assault from Bannagran in the front and Prydae behind. But Bannagran, his eyes and mouth opened wide in a silent scream, did not approach; and before Bransen even glanced back at Prydae, he understood why.
For there staggered the Laird of Pryd Holding, mortally wounded, Bannagran’s axe buried deep in his chest.
Bransen dove to the side of the room, to Cadayle, whose throat was pouring blood. Beside her, Rennarq gurgled and twitched, and Bransen absently pushed him aside. For he posed no threat, the young Jhesta Tu knew. Bransen’s spear of energy had ruptured Rennarq’s chi, had shattered the line and sent it into uncontrollable spasms. The irony of it, that Rennarq was doomed to become the very storklike creature he so detested, made no impact on Bransen at that moment—not with Cadayle lying so still before him.
He could feel her life energy, her warmth, flowing out of her as he fell over her in a hug. He tried to compose himself, tried to bring the soul stone to bear and find some way to heal her.
But it was too personal, too horrible, and Bransen couldn’t find his focus! And he knew that the soldiers were coming in and that Bannagran would fly into murderous rage. He pressed the soul stone to her wound and sent his thoughts, his heart and soul, into it.
But it was too little, he feared, and his trembling hands could not focus the power.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly swooned, nearly broke apart on the floor.
“Bransen,” Brother Reandu said quietly in his ear, and he placed his hand over Bransen’s hand that held the soul stone. “Together, my friend,” Reandu assured him. “Calm. Calm is the key.”
Reandu kept talking to him, whispering to him, reassuring him. Bransen felt Reandu’s energy flowing into his hand and into the soul stone, and used that flow as his own guide.
Bransen felt his hand grow warm.
The blood slowed to a trickle, then stemmed altogether.
Cadayle seemed so pale and so still….
“Please,” Bransen whispered, but Cadayle did not stir.
Reandu patted Bransen on the back as the young man fell over his beloved sobbing, and the weary monk rose to his feet and turned. Prydae was dead, he knew, and had known as soon as he had pushed his way into the room. Over by the body, Bannagran rose, his face twisted in a knot of rage and confusion. He started toward Reandu and Bransen, but the monk stopped him with an upraised hand.
“There has been far too much tragedy this day,” Reandu said.
“One more will die,” Bannagran promised.
“Because he was protecting the woman he loves?”
The simple question stole some of the bluster from Bannagran, and stopped his approach.
“Would Bannagran, loyal Bannagran, have done any less?” Reandu pressed.
“Laird Prydae is dead,” the large man proclaimed. “Bernivvigar is dead. Rennarq lies torn on the floor, and your own Master Bathelais lies broken below. All because of this man, this Highwayman!”
“We gain nothing by continuing this,” Reandu said.
Bannagran glowered at him, then glanced down at the sword on the floor. “Perhaps my satisfaction at killing him will be enough,” he growled, and he started to bend for the sword.
He jerked back, as a rolling body rushed past, and when it went by, the sword was gone; and Bannagran glanced behind to see the Highwayman standing there, sword leveled and ready to plunge it through Bannagran’s chest.
“You speak of satisfaction?” Bransen asked him. “Like my own satisfaction in killing those who maimed and murdered my father Garibond? Like my own satisfaction in watching Bannagran’s own axe tear open the chest of Laird Prydae? Like my own satisfaction now, when I see mighty Bannagran fall dead on the floor? For, yes, I know that you were among those who murdered Garibond. Pray to whatever god you serve, Bannagran, and be quick!”
He ended with a movement that seemed the start of a thrust, but the shout of Reandu stopped him.
“No!” the monk cried. “No, Bransen, do not do this!”
Reandu came forward in a rush, pushing past to stand between Bannagran and Bransen. “I beg of you, my friend. This is not the way. You gain nothing by killing him, by killing anyone.”
“And was Brother Reandu among those who murdered Garibond?” Bransen snapped back.
Reandu paled, all the answer Bransen needed, and for a moment, everyone, including Bransen himself, expected him to drive his sword through the monk’s chest.
“Bransen?” Cadayle called.
The Highwayman looked past the helpless Reandu, past Bannagran, to see Cadayle propped on her elbows, her pretty eyes open and staring at him.
And judging him, in this critical moment. And the weight of that judgment forced him to judge himself.
He looked back at the terrified Reandu and the subdued Bannagran.
He lowered his blade.
Early the next morning, Bannagran studied the frail-looking young man standing before him, his mind flying between confusion, pity, and hatred. This man’s actions had led to the death of his dearest friend, and for that, the mighty warrior demanded revenge.
To the side of the room stood Cadayle and her mother, Callen, holding each other, both crying, for they knew what would transpire here. Bransen had surrendered, on agreement that they would be spared, but that
“Do not do this, I beg you,” said Brother Reandu, standing at Bransen’s side. “There is no gain to be found here in continuing the senseless tragedy.”
“We have already had this discussion,” Bannagran said, cutting him short, and the warrior’s eyes bored into Bransen, who did not look away, did not look down, and did not blink.
It all seemed so simple to Bannagran; he was willing to let the young woman and her mother go free—the Samhaists were in complete confusion and leaderless now, after all, and so there was no one to demand the death of the mother. As for the Highwayman, he was fairly caught and guilty of great crimes against Pryd Holding, indeed crimes that would undermine Pryd Holding!
Yes, the Highwayman had willingly surrendered to Bannagran, with the agreement that Cadayle would be spared. And so it all seemed a simple matter of beheading the fool or throwing him to the flames.
But that simplicity was undermined by the spectacle that Bannagran knew was unfolding right before Castle Pryd’s closed gates. Hundreds, thousands, had turned out that morning to show their grief at the loss of Laird Prydae and to shout their support for the Highwayman.
Dangerous support, Bannagran knew, and he remembered his own warnings to his friend, Laird Prydae, when Prydae had expressed his determination to kill the Highwayman. Beyond that, Bannagran understood keenly that with the power vacuum, religious and secular, in Pryd Holding, the state of the holding would be his to wear as mantle or weight when Laird Delaval came to claim the land as his own. Bannagran’s standing would greatly depend upon his actions this very morning.
He looked hard at the Highwayman and wanted to hate the man. He thought of his dead friend, killed inadvertently by his own hand, and he wanted to blame this man and to hate him all the more.
And yet Brother Reandu’s words—of sympathy and understanding, of seeing poor Bransen’s perspective in all this tragedy—had not fallen on deaf ears. Would Bannagran be honoring or doing a disservice to the memory of Prydae by executing this young man?