Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“They are cunning fellows,” Prince Midalis replied, and he looked up and noted that Brother Dellman, in particular, wore a surprised expression.
“You know of them?” he asked the young monk.
“It may be that we chased this same boat across the gulf,” the brother explained.
“They are trying to get home,” Abbot Agronguerre remarked.
“A pity for them,” Midalis said grimly. There was no argument from the soldiers and the monks or from the Vanguardsmen who had suffered so terribly at the hands of the vicious bloody caps. “Set your archers all along the cliff,” he instructed Warder Presso. “Tell them to pick their shots carefully and to wait for the signal.” Midalis turned to Abbot Agronguerre. “I pray you do the same with your crossbowmen and any gemstone magic you wish to throw at our enemies. I doubt that you will be needing much energy with the soul stone when this battle is finished.”
Abbot Agronguerre nodded his agreement with the tactic and the assessment. As far as they could see, the powries numbered less than a score, and Agronguerre doubted that any would even survive the first volley.
Andacanavar returned to them a few minutes later, explaining that Bruinhelde and his force were in position just to the southwest of the dry dock, in the trees at the western edge of the little bay’s mouth, ready to strike.
Midalis looked to Liam, who ran off at once, assembling a force to complement the barbarians’.
“Bruinhelde has more than enough men to finish this task,” Andacanavar assured the Prince. “When they break from the forest edge, rain your death upon the powries, and it will be finished.”
“This is Vanguard,” the Prince replied. “My men should be among the attacking force.”
“We’ve not the time,” the ranger explained, pointing down to the dry dock. “It seems that we’ve come upon our enemies at the last moment. They are preparing to leave, and Bruinhelde will not allow that!”
“Nor will Captain Al’u’met,” Brother Dellman added, and all eyes turned his way, to see him smiling widely and looking out past the bay, to the open gulf. And there, around the western lip of the bay, they all saw the sails of the
Saudi Jacintha
, as the boat glided to intercept the powries’ craft.
Apparently, Bruinhelde and his kin spotted those sails as well, and, not knowing
their intent, decided to make sure that those powries already landed found no reinforcements. Or, Midalis mused, perhaps the barbarian leader was just trying to make sure that he and his brethren did indeed find all the fun!
Whatever the case, the barbarian horde came crashing out of the brush, howling wildly, launching their chained hammers.
Prince Midalis leaped up and cried out, and down went the devastating volley, arrows and crossbow bolts and streaks of lightning.
D
alump Keedump recognized his doom clearly enough when the barbarian horde, a hundred strong at least, came roaring out of the forest, and that fear was only multiplied when death rained down upon his companions from above.
Fortunately for the powrie leader and a couple of his associates, they were tucked in close to the boat at that moment, with the bulky craft between them and the archers, and thus escaped the volley.
Dalump ordered his minions—those few still standing!—to meet the charge, but he held back the two beside him and motioned for one to go up on the ship with him and for the other to run forward and cut the line.
The powrie could only hope that his foolish soldiers would keep the barbarians busy long enough for him to get out into the bay.
“T
hey’re running!” Midalis cried as the powrie boat slid down the dry dock to splash into the water. The powrie who had cut the line ran wildly along the beach, trying to keep up, and when he found that he could not, he dove down in the sand and grabbed up the rope, getting pulled along.
Midalis’ archers focused their next shots on that sliding dwarf, and when he hit the water, all around him turned crimson.
Bruinhelde, too, cried out against the escape, and he rushed around those few charging powries, letting his able companions cleave the dwarves down, while he ran full out down the beach.
Already the boat’s square mainsail was filling with wind, but Bruinhelde’s long stride got him close enough. He dove into the water and snatched the trailing rope, pulling himself along its length.
From up above, the archers and the monks focused their missiles and their magic at the deck of the boat, but no clear targets could they see. The craft, groaning and creaking, began its turn for the bay mouth.
“Al’u’met will get them,” Midalis remarked. “Keep putting arrows across the deck,” he instructed Liam.
“Hold them!” Agronguerre overruled the Prince. The abbot pointed down to the water, indicating Bruinhelde, working hard to get to the boat.
“Go for the sail, then!” Midalis commanded. “And keep your shots high!”
D
alump Keedump kept his head low, cursing and spitting as yet another thunderous lightning bolt flashed overhead, ripping a line in one sail. But then the ship
lurched as it came about, its sail filling with a strong breeze, rushing in diagonally from behind.
“Yach, catch us if ye can!” the powrie shouted, but his words died in his mouth when he looked forward and saw the
Saudi Jacintha
closing fast, her deck crowded with archers.
“We got to quit,” the other powrie said.
“And go back to a human jail?” Dalump answered, and he slapped his companion on the back of the head. “Yach, I’ll go to the bottom o’ the bay afore I’ll sit in a smelly dungeon again!” With that, he tied off the wheel to keep her sailing straight and rushed forward, dragging his reluctant companion beside him, howling curses at the approaching ship.
“Come on then, ye dogs! I’ll give ye a hit or ten!”
B
ruinhelde tugged furiously, pulling his body closer and closer alongside the speeding craft. The rope was tied off in front, but the thought of following that course daunted the barbarian, for he’d surely drown in the prow waves before he ever dragged himself out of the water. Besides, the deck was low.
Bruinhelde wrapped one arm tightly about the rope, then pulled in the slack behind him. He coiled the loose end and tossed it up, looping it on a spur along the railing, then caught it as it came back down. He nearly lost his grip altogether when he let go of the towing end and jerked to the end of the slack on the other piece of rope, but again, with sheer determination and strength, the powerful barbarian drove on. Soon he was back to the spot where he had thrown the rope, and then, with a great tug, he came out of the water, scrambling up the side of the boat.
He peeked over to see only two powries, and both of them up front, with their backs to him.
Bruinhelde drew a long dagger from his belt and pulled himself up higher.
“H
old your shots,” Al’u’met instructed his many archers as the boats continued to close.
The powrie curses came at him, along with a flying club, as Dalump launched the missile. “I’ll ram ye to the bottom with me!” the powrie promised.
“Take them out,” Captain Al’u’met said grimly, and the bows bent back and the arrows flew.
Unfortunately, at that same moment, Bruinhelde appeared, charging hard at the powrie pair.
The barrage dropped Dalump Keedump and his powrie companion.
Behind them, Bruinhelde went down.
T
he mood in the two distinct camps on the beach that night was somber indeed. Abbot Agronguerre, along with Brothers Dellman and Haney, went to the Alpinadoran encampment, offering their bandages and services.
Captain Al’u’met, all apologies, accompanied Prince Midalis, Liam, and Andacanavar,
to join the Alpinadoran council.
“We did not see Bruinhelde,” the captain explained, and Andacanavar translated, with equal sincerity, for his excited kinsmen. “Else we would have held the shot and let him finish the powries.”
One Alpinadoran answered gruffly, using words that none of the Vanguardsmen understood, and then another agreed. When Andacanavar turned back to the Vanguardsmen, he offered a comforting wink.
“Bruinhelde was injured in battle,” the ranger explained. “There is no shame in that. As for your error, they do not doubt your honesty, though I will admit that they are surprised, as am I, to see a man with skin so dark.”
Captain Al’u’met bowed low.
“We all pray that Bruinhelde will survive his wounds,” Prince Midalis offered.
“He is made of tougher stuff than you understand, if you fear that he will not,” Andacanavar determinedly replied.
“H
e’s unconscious,” Brother Haney remarked. “He’ll not even know.”
Abbot Agronguerre stared hard at the younger brother. “And what think you, Brother Dellman?” he asked. “Should I use the soul stone upon our friend Bruinhelde, though he has forbidden me to do so with any of his warriors?”
“I do not know enough of the situation or the history to make such a judgment,” Dellman deferred.
“Without the magic, he might well die,” Haney argued. “And if Bruinhelde’s to die, then all of our gains with Alpinador these last months might be for naught. Andacanavar takes little of the praise for the friendship, giving it to Bruinhelde.”
“True enough,” Abbot Agronguerre conceded.
“So you will go to him with the soul stone?” Brother Dellman asked.
Abbot Agronguerre paused for a long moment and stroked his hand against his chin. “No,” he decided. “No, whatever the cost, then so be it. I’ll not take the man’s soul for the sake of his body; and to use the hematite, in Bruinhelde’s thinking, I would be doing just that. Let us continue our conventional work upon him and let us pray.”
Brother Dellman stared long and hard at Abbot Agronguerre at that moment, and the old monk, obviously feeling that gaze upon him, turned a questioning stare the brother’s way.
“If we are to hold any friendship with Alpinador, then it must be a bond forged in truth and in respect,” Agronguerre explained. “It will bring me great sorrow if Bruinhelde, so wise for one of his heritage, passes from our world this night, but greater would my regret be if I dishonored the bond of friendship.”
In that moment, Brother Dellman knew. Beyond any doubt, he knew this man would become the next father abbot of the Abellican Church, a nomination Dellman would wholeheartedly embrace.
They waited a long time beside Bruinhelde’s bed, bandaging him. Brother Haney finally managed to cut through the shaft of the last arrow, its tip embedded
deeply in the barbarian’s hip. They could not dare to try to extract it, not without gemstone magic assistance, but at least now the whole of it was contained within the man.
Another hour passed, and Bruinhelde seemed to be resting more comfortably. He even opened one eye, to find Agronguerre close to him.
“It hurts,” the abbot remarked, and Bruinhelde gave a slight nod.
“Good Bruinhelde, I offer this only in the truest sense of friendship,” Agronguerre said, and he held the soul stone up before the barbarian’s blue eyes.
And those eyes widened—in horror, it seemed to Dellman. Bruinhelde’s breath came in rasps and he shook his head violently, though every movement seemed to pain him greatly.
“Then we’ll not!” Abbot Agronguerre assured him, grabbing him to hold him steady. “Only on your word would we ever presume such a thing. Fear not!” He knew that Bruinhelde was only partially understanding him, but the man seemed to relax somewhat.
Soon, Bruinhelde was asleep.
At Agronguerre’s bidding, Brother Dellman went to the barbarian council tent to inform them of the progress. When he arrived, he found an embarrassed Midalis holding a flag, the pennant of Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic, his brother’s naval commander.
“It was indeed the same ship we chased across the gulf,” Captain Al’u’met explained. “An Ursal ship, no doubt, likely fresh out of Palmaris.”
“How can this be, Brother Dellman?” Midalis asked, and the monk swallowed hard. On his way over, he had passed the lines of powrie bodies stretched on the beach, and he was fairly certain that he recognized at least one of the dwarves, an orange-bearded creature he had seen on a misty morning, taken prisoner in the last Palmaris battle, from the western fields.
“Duke Kalas,” he remarked, and all eyes turned his way. He started to tell the tale of the fight that long-ago morning, and of the Duke and his brilliant Allheart knights marching the powries in from the field.
“An escape from the Palmaris dungeons?” Prince Midalis asked incredulously.
That notion seemed like the only possible answer; and yet, it, too, seemed impossible. How could a small band of powries break out of the fortress known as Chasewind Manor and somehow commandeer a sailing ship out of Palmaris’ busy and well-guarded port?
Then it hit Dellman, like a slap in the face. Why hadn’t he and Al’u’met heard of any such escape, or theft of a ship, before they left, since the powries had obviously sailed out just ahead of them? And even beyond that, why hadn’t the powries been summarily executed after the battle on the western fields, as had been announced and would certainly have been proper?
And why, Dellman wondered—and he wondered, too, why he hadn’t thought of this those many weeks before—hadn’t any of the Allheart knights been even slightly injured in that fight? They were great warriors, to be sure, perhaps the best
in Honce-the-Bear, but the powrie numbers had been much greater that day—so proclaimed the victorious Duke—and that battlefield hadn’t even been prepared properly.
“No escape,” Dellman blurted, shaking his head incredulously, for the alternative stuck in his throat. He started to go on, to admit his suspicions that these particular powries had been in league with Duke Kalas, but he looked at the Prince standing before him, and then at the barbarians hanging on his every word, and wisely changed his mind.
“No escape from the dungeons,” he said with clear conviction. “Likely these dwarves were being transported—back to Ursal, I would presume—for proper execution or interrogation, when they overwhelmed the crew of the ship and turned her back for the open waters.”