A rush of cavalry stormed past the friends then, one rider skidding his horse to a stop near Luthien. “The one-eye leaders,” the man said breathlessly, “on ponypigs, getting away!”
Luthien turned his mount about and reached down to take Oliver’s hand.
“But my pony!” the halfling protested as Luthien yanked him up behind the saddle. Oliver gave a shrill whistle and peered all about, but the snow was thicker now, blowing fiercely, and the yellow pony could not be seen.
The battle had stretched out along the fields far to the north, with the cyclopians in full flight. Luthien and his cavalry group, some twenty riders, ignored the running cyclopian infantry, concentrating instead on catching up to the ponypigs.
Ponypigs could move well, especially on the muddy fields, but not as well as horses, and soon Belsen’Krieg and his dozen remaining escorts were in sight.
On came the cavalry, crying for Eriador and Caer MacDonald. The cyclopian leaders knew that they were caught, knew that they could not outrun the horses, and so they turned, ready to meet the charge.
Luthien saw the huge one-eyed general, and Belsen’Krieg saw him. It seemed somehow as if they were removed from the field then, or that all of the others were, for the young Bedwyr put his mount in line, and so did the cyclopian leader, and no fighter on either side moved to intercept or interfere.
Luthien pulled up; so did Belsen’Krieg. They sat staring at each other, hating each other.
“Get off,” Luthien said to Oliver.
The halfling considered the huge cyclopian, barely a dozen yards away. Oliver could see the hatred between these two, the rivalry, leader against leader. “Time to go,” he agreed, and rolled off the rump of Luthien’s mount, turning a complete somersault to land gingerly on his feet—well, almost, for he hit a particularly slick patch of ground and his feet flew out from under him, landing him unceremoniously on his backside. The embarrassed halfling glanced around, near to panic, but none of the others took any notice.
“Caer MacDonald!” Luthien growled at the cyclopian leader.
Belsen’Krieg tilted his huge head as he considered the words, then brightened with understanding. “Montfort,” he corrected.
Luthien yelled out and charged; Belsen’Krieg pacing his every move. Their great swords rang loudly as they passed, with no substantial damage, though Luthien’s arm tingled from the weight of the cyclopian’s blow.
Oliver realized a problem then. He was standing alone in the middle of the field, and suddenly the huge brute was closer to him than was Luthien! The halfling whimpered and considered his rapier, seeming so puny against that mounted monstrosity, but to his ultimate relief, the brute did not even notice him, just wheeled the ponypig about and began the second pass.
Again their swords slashed across up high, connecting in the air between them. But Luthien had changed his grip this time, and Blind-Striker rotated down with the momentum of Belsen’Krieg’s mighty swing, Luthien ducking and nearly getting his head shaved as the cyclopian’s blade barreled through.
The agile Bedwyr had allowed his sword to roll right out of his hand, and he caught it almost immediately, his grip reversed. He thrust it straight out, aiming at Belsen’Krieg’s thigh, but he wasn’t quite quick enough and Blind-Striker drove deep into the ponypig’s flank instead.
The powerful mount rambled past and Luthien had to let go of his reins and grab his sword hilt in both hands to avoid losing the weapon. He did hold on to the blade, and it did tear free of the passing ponypig, but Luthien got yanked from his horse in the process. He splashed down in the muddy field, struggling up in time to see Belsen’Krieg extracting himself from his downed mount.
“Now you die!” the cyclopian promised, stalking over without the slightest hesitation. The brutish general’s great sword slashed, then came in a rapid backhand, and Luthien barely got his weapon up to parry.
Belsen’Krieg pressed the attack with an overhand chop and a straight thrust; Luthien blocked and hopped aside at the last moment.
The cyclopian came on savagely, but Luthien was up to the task, letting Belsen’Krieg play out his rage, deflecting or dodging every attack. Every once in a while, the young Bedwyr found a slight opening and Blind-Striker penetrated Belsen’Krieg’s defenses, but the young Bedwyr had to be quick and retract the blade immediately, ready to block the next vicious attack.
Though Luthien saw the thin lines of blood on his adversary, he understood that he was really doing very little damage. He felt like a buzzing wasp biting at a giant, an impossible match. Luthien pushed down any ensuing panic, telling himself that the wasp could win.
But only if it was perfect.
It went on for some time, Luthien dodging and stinging, but Belsen’Krieg seemed to feel nothing, and his attacks did not slow with exhaustion. This one was good, Luthien realized, far better than any cyclopian he had ever faced. And strong! Luthien knew that if he missed a single parry, if this brute connected even once, he would be cleaved in half.
And then it happened; Luthien, circling, stepped on a patch of uneven ice and skidded down to one knee. Belsen’Krieg was on him immediately, the great sword chopping down.
Up came Blind-Striker, horizontally above Luthien’s head. Belsen’Krieg’s sword hit it near the hilt and was stopped, but Luthien’s arm buckled under the tremendous weight of the blow and he dropped his blade. He wasn’t seriously wounded, he believed, but the pain was intense.
He grabbed up Blind-Striker in his left hand and thrust ahead, trying to force the one-eyed monster back. He got Belsen’Krieg in the belly, but not enough to stop the brute.
Luthien scrambled to get his blade up, but was knocked forward suddenly, as someone, something, ran up his back.
Springing from Luthien’s shoulders, Oliver caught Belsen’Krieg by surprise. The cyclopian’s eye widened, a wonderful target, but Oliver, off balance as Luthien slid to the side, missed it, his rapier stabbing Belsen’Krieg’s cheek instead.
The cyclopian screamed and flailed his huge arms, falling back from the fight. He straightened out as Luthien and Oliver picked themselves up, standing side by side.
“You are a one-eyed, ugly thing,” Oliver taunted. “You would not know the value of friends!”
As if to accentuate the halfling’s point (and Oliver had timed things that way), a shining white stallion, long coat glistening with wetness, thundered right behind the cyclopian, slamming the huge brute across the shoulders and launching him headlong, face-first into the mud.
Belsen’Krieg came up sputtering to find himself surrounded by Luthien and Oliver, and now Katerin O’Hale, magnificent atop Riverdancer, her red hair darkened with wetness and snow gathering on her shoulders. Her smile was wide and bright, her green eyes sparkling more than the ice crystals forming at the ends of her thick hair, as she considered the situation, the victory that was won this day.
Belsen’Krieg looked about for support. He saw his last undercommander lurch over and slide slowly off a ponypig, its falling bulk revealing the victorious horseman behind it, sword red with blood. More than a dozen of Luthien’s cavalry remained, along with the few Katerin had brought with her, including one slight woman riding a yellow pony that had little hair in its tail.
Oliver grinned at the sight of his beloved Threadbare, but turned serious at once when he faced the cyclopian leader.
“I think you should surrender,” he remarked.
Belsen’Krieg looked around for a long while. Luthien could practically hear the creature’s thoughts—the caged animal looking for an escape. There was none to be found. Luthien wasn’t sure what Belsen’Krieg would do, which way the brute would turn, but then, unexpectedly, the one-eye threw his huge sword to the ground.
As one, the group relaxed, Luthien taking a stride toward the cyclopian leader. His sword arm still ached, but not so much that he could not take up Blind-Striker, flexing his muscles and grimacing through the pain.
Out came a knife, and daring, wild Belsen’Krieg ch
arged ahead.
“Luthien!” Katerin and Oliver yelled together. Before the word had even left their mouths, Luthien’s free left hand whipped across, catching the cyclopian by the wrist. Luthien could hardly move Belsen’Krieg’s massive arm, but he used the support to shift himself instead, inside the angle of the rushing dagger. And as he moved, his own sword jabbed ahead, creasing Belsen’Krieg’s breastplate, cutting through the armor, into the brute’s lungs.
They held the macabre pose for a long moment, then Belsen’Krieg growled—and the mouths of those witnessing the event dropped open in disbelief—and began forcing his knife hand toward the young Bedwyr.
Luthien tucked his shoulder down against his sword hand and jerked at the blade, and Belsen’Krieg’s movement came to an abrupt halt. Again they held the pose, unblinking, their faces barely a few inches apart.
“One up,” Luthien growled, and the dying Belsen’Krieg had no response, for indeed the young Bedwyr had been one step ahead of him throughout the battle.
Luthien jerked his blade again, then felt it sinking down as Belsen’Krieg’s legs slowly buckled, bringing the brute to his knees. Luthien felt the strength go out of Belsen’Krieg’s massive arm; the knife dropped to the ground.
Luthien pulled Blind-Striker free, but even without the support, Belsen’Krieg fell no farther. The dead cyclopian leader knelt on the field.
Already the snow began to gather about him.
IMPLICATIONS
The battle—the rout—ended swiftly, with half of Belsen’Krieg’s force killed and the other half running off blindly into the open fields. Losses to the Eriadorans were remarkably light; the folk of Port Charley could count their dead on the fingers of six hands, though Luthien’s group, which had thrown itself into the cyclopian throng, was more battered.
Both Eriadoran armies gathered back together on the field near to where the Port Charley encampment had been. They tended their wounded, finished off any cyclopians who were sorely hurt, and put all the one-eye prisoners in line. Fortunately there weren’t many prisoners, less than a hundred altogether, and these, having seen their proud Praetorian Guards routed so horribly, were little trouble.
The storm grew around them all, the day darkening, though it was near to noon. Brind’Amour organized the march with all of his archers in front. They fought a small skirmish as they crossed Felling Run, a couple of volleys of arrows mostly. The cyclopians responded by hurling heavy spears, but, with typical cyclopian accuracy, not a single Eriadoran was hit.
There wasn’t much fight left in those entrenched Avon soldiers—they were beginning to break and flee before the Eriadorans ever got to the river. For the rest of that day, the biggest obstacle facing the army of Eriador was in getting back to the shelter of Caer MacDonald as the blizzard came on in full about them.
Back on Riverdancer, Luthien heard the cheers as he approached the walled city, for news of the rout had preceded the returning army. The young Bedwyr had lost a couple of friends this day, a woman and two men who frequented the Dwelf, but his sadness was tempered in the belief that his friends had not died in vain. They had won the day; Eriador had won the day! The victorious army along with their allies of Port Charley poured into the city, scattering among the streets, breaking up into small groups that they might recount the day’s glorious events.
Luthien, Katerin, and Oliver went back to the apartment in Tiny Alcove to catch up on the events of the last few weeks. The young Bedwyr was thrilled to see his dearest friends again, particularly Katerin. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the woman. Of course he thought of Siobahn and their encounter the previous evening, but he hadn’t really yet figured out what it all meant.
All that Luthien knew at the time was that he was glad, so glad, to see Katerin O’Hale once more.
Some time later, they were joined at the apartment by Brind’Amour, Siobahn, and Shuglin, who had also been quite busy that day.
“We killed every cyclopian running the streets of Caer MacDonald,” the dwarf assured them. “No more fires.”
Brind’Amour, reclining in the most comfortable of the three chairs in the small sitting room, hoisted a cup of wine in toast to that welcome news. Siobahn and Oliver, likewise seated and sipping wine, joined in, as did the other three, hoisting mugs of golden honey mead.
Seated on the stone hearth, Luthien looked across the open fireplace at Katerin, and they were warmed by more than the flames that burned between them.
“Well,” Shuglin corrected himself, shifting closer to the hearth, “no more unwanted fires!”
That brought a slight chuckle from the group.
“We still have several thousand cyclopians running free across the countryside,” Oliver remarked.
“Out in the blizzard,” Katerin snorted.
“We will catch those who survive the storm,” Siobahn said grimly.
Luthien nodded; on the way back into Caer MacDonald, pursuit groups had been arranged. The fleeing cyclopians would be hunted down.
“There are no towns nearby, except for Felling Downs,” Siobahn went on. “And the brutes will find no shelter there, for the houses have all been razed. Likely, they will turn for Port Charley.”
Luthien was hardly listening, more concerned with the half-elf’s serious tone. The hard day’s battle had been won, but Siobahn would not allow herself a break in the intensity. Yes, for Siobahn the rebellion was paramount, all-consuming. She would do whatever it took to free Eriador and free her people from Greensparrow.
Whatever it took, like bedding the Crimson Shadow? Luthien shook the notion away the moment he thought of it, scolding himself for thinking so little of Siobahn. There was something real between himself and the half-elf, something wonderful and warm, and though they both knew that it would never be more than it was now, Luthien vowed then and there that he would not look back on his lost relationship with Siobahn with doubt or remorse. He was a better man for knowing her; his life was happier because she remained a part of it. And in looking at her now, Luthien believed with all his heart that she felt the same way.
He turned his gaze from Siobahn, who continued talking of the duties still before them, across the hearth to Katerin. She had been staring at him, he realized, for she blushed (something rarely seen on Katerin’s tanned cheeks) and turned her green eyes away.
Luthien gave a small smile to hide the pain and closed his eyes, holding fast his image of the woman from Hale as he rested his head back. He dozed then, as the conversation continued, even intensified, about him.
“Our fearless leader,” Oliver remarked dryly, noticing Luthien’s pose and rhythmic breathing.
All five had a laugh at Luthien’s expense. Katerin reached across to shake him.
“Let him sleep,” Siobahn bade her. Immediate tension filled the air between the two women as Katerin turned to regard the half-elf.
“He has labored day and night,” Siobahn went on, ignoring the woman’s visage, an expression that revealed the rivalry between the two.
Katerin straightened and dropped her arm to her side.
“Well, of course those cyclopians who fled this day will be of little consequence,” Brind’Amour interjected, somewhat loudly and importantly, forcing all eyes to turn to him. “Many will die in the storm and those who do not will be in little condition to fight back when we catch up with them. They’ll make to the west, of course, to their fleet, which is no longer their fleet!”
“Can Port Charley resist them?” Oliver asked in all seriousness, for most of that town’s hardy souls were in Caer MacDonald.
“Few cyclopians will ever get there,” Siobahn promised.
“And we’ll get enough fighters there before the brutes arrive,” Brind’Amour was quick to add. “They will be dogged every step, and we know the faster ways. No, they’ll be little trouble. The army of Avon that came to our shores is defeated.”
“But what does that mean?” Shuglin asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.
Dead silence. In considering the long-term implications of this day’s victory, each of them realized that it might, after all, be only a small thing, a flickering reprieve in the darkness that was Greensparrow.
“It means that we have won a battle,” Brind’Amour said at length. “And now we have a fleet to hinder any further invasion through Port Charley.
“But Greensparrow will take us more seriously now,” the wizard warned. “The snow is deep, and that favors us and awards us some time, but the days are warmer now and it will not last for long. We can expect an army marching out from Malpuissant’s Wall soon after the melt, and likely another force coming through the passes of the Iron Cross, both of them greater than the force we just defeated on the field.”
What had been a celebration quickly dissolved, stolen by the grim dwarf’s necessary question and the obvious truth of the wizard’s reminder.
Brind’Amour scrutinized each of his companions. These five, he knew, were representative of the Eriadorans. There was Katerin, proud Katerin, desperate for a return to the days of Eriador’s freedom, Eriador’s glory. Most of the islanders were like her—on Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth—as were the folk of Port Charley and the tribes north of Eradoch, in the area of Bae Colthwyn.
There was Siobahn, angry Siobahn, stung by injustice and consumed by thoughts of revenge. So representative of the sophisticated people of Montfort—no, Caer MacDonald; it could be called that now—the wizard thought. She was the architect of it all, the cunning behind the rebellion, proud, but not too proud to allow the intrusions of a wizard when she understood that those intrusions would benefit her people.
There was Shuglin, whose people had suffered most of all. This one had moved past anger, Brind’Amour knew, and past resignation. Those dwarfs who had died in their suicidal ambush out by the fallen wall had been neither angry nor sad. They did as they believed they had to do, in the simple hope that Eriador, and their people, would have a better lot for their sacrifice. There he was, that blue-bearded dwarf, the purest of soldiers. Brind’Amour believed that if he had ten thousand like Shuglin, he could sweep Greensparrow and all of Avon from the face of the world.