R. Salvatore - The Dragon King

“Then my greetings to Vinndalf,” Luthien said, surprising Katerin, who stood scowling at his side. “I come as emissary of King Brind’Amour of Eriador.”

“We asked for no parley,” Asmund said.

“But you know now that your attacks on Eriadoran ships and coast do no harm to Greensparrow,” Luthien said. “We are not your enemies.”

That brought more than a few laughs from the many Huegoths in the hut, and laughter from outside as well, confirming to Luthien that this meeting of the lost brothers had become a public spectacle.

“Ethan,” Luthien said solemnly. “Vinndalf, I am, or was, your brother.”

“In a world from which I was banished,” Ethan interrupted.

“I looked for you,” Luthien said. “I killed the cyclopian who murdered Garth Rogar, and then I looked for you, to the south, where you were supposedly heading.”

“I took him there,” Oliver had to say, if for no other reason than the fact that the halfling couldn’t stand being on the sidelines of any conversation for so long.

“I, too, considered our father dead,” Luthien went on, “though I assure you that in the end the man redeemed himself.”

“He thought of you on the night he died,” Katerin put in. “His guilt weighed heavily on him.”

“As it should have,” said Ethan.

“Agreed,” Luthien replied. “And I make no excuses for the world from which you fled. But that world is no more, I promise. Eriador is free now.”

“What concern have we of your petty squabbles?” Asmund asked incredulously. As soon as he regarded the man, Luthien realized that the Huegoth feared that Luthien might be stealing some fun here. “You speak of Greensparrow and Eriador as though they are not the same. To us, you are degjern-alfar, and nothing more!”

Degjern-alfar . Luthien knew the word, an Isenland term for any who was not Huegoth.

“And I am Huegoth,” Ethan insisted before Luthien could make any points about his Eriadoran blood. Ethan looked to a nodding Asmund. “Huegoth by deed.”

“You are a Huegoth who understands the importance of what I say,” Luthien added quickly. “Eriador is free, but if you continue your raids, you are aiding Greensparrow in his desires to take us back under his evil wing.” For the first time, it seemed to Luthien as if he had gotten through to his stubborn brother. He knew that Ethan, whatever his claim of loyalty, was thrilled at the idea that Eriador had broken free of Avon, and Luthien knew, too, that the thought that the Huegoth actions, that Ethan’s own actions, might be aiding the man who had, by sending the plague, murdered their mother and broken their father, was truly agonizing to Ethan.

“And what would you ask of me?” the older Bedwyr brother asked after a short pause.

“Desist,” said Oliver, stepping in front. Luthien wanted to slap the halfling for taking center stage at that critical point. “Take your silly boat and go back to where you belong. We have four-score warships—”

Luthien pushed Oliver aside, and when the halfling tried to resist, Katerin grabbed him by the collar, spun him about and scowled in his face, a look that conjured images in Oliver of being thrown to the floor and sat upon by the woman.

“Join with us,” Luthien said on a sudden impulse. He realized how stupid that sounded even as the words left his mouth, but he knew that the last thing one should do to a Huegoth (as Oliver had just done) was issue a challenge of honor. Threatening King Asmund with eighty galleons would force the fierce man to accept the war. “With nearly four-score warships and your fleet, we might—”

“You ask this of me?” Ethan said, slapping himself on the chest.

Luthien straightened. “You are my brother,” he said firmly. “And were of Eriador, whatever your claim may now be. I demand that you ask of your king to halt the raids on Eriador’s coast. For all that has happened, we are not your enemies.”

Ethan snorted and didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder at Asmund. “Do not put too much weight on my ability to influence my Huegoth brothers,” Ethan said. “King Asmund, and not I, decides the Huegoth course.”

“But you were willing to go along,” Luthien accused, his face twisting in sudden rage. “While Eriadorans died, Ethan Bedwyr did nothing!”

“Ethan Bedwyr is dead,” the man called Vinndalf replied.

“And does Vinndalf not remember all the good that Luthien Bedwyr brought to his younger life?” Katerin asked.

Ethan’s broad shoulders slumped for just an instant, a subtle indication that Katerin had hit a chord. Ethan straightened quickly, though, and stared hard at Luthien.

“I will beg of my king to give you this much,” Ethan said evenly. “On mighty Asmund’s word, we will let you leave, will deliver you and Katerin and your puffy and puny friend back to the coast of Bae Colthwyn, south of Gybi.”

“And the others?” Luthien asked grimly.

“Fairly taken,” Ethan replied.

Luthien squared up and shook his head. “All of them,” he insisted. “Every man and woman returned to Eriador, their home.”

For a long moment, it seemed a stand-off. Then Rennir, who was enjoying it all, crossed the room to Ethan and handed the man Blind-Striker. Ethan looked long and hard at the sword, the most important relic of his former family. After a moment, he chuckled, and then, eyeing Luthien in an act of open defiance, he strapped the magnificent weapon about his waist.

“You said you were no longer of family Bedwyr,” remarked Luthien, looking for some advantage, and trying to take the edge from his own rising anger. Seeing Ethan—no, Vinndalf—wearing that sword was nearly more than Luthien could take.

“True enough,” Ethan replied casually, as though that fact was of no importance.

“Yet you wear the Bedwyr sword.”

Now it was Ethan’s turn to laugh, and Rennir and Asmund, and all the other Huegoths joined in. “I wear a weapon plundered from a vanquished enemy,” Ethan corrected. “Fairly won, like the men who will serve as slaves. Take my offer, former brother. Go, and with Katerin. I cannot guarantee her safety here, and as for your little friend, I can assure you that he will find a most horrible fate at the hands of the men of Isenland, who do not accept such weakness.”

“Weakness?” Oliver stammered, but Katerin slapped her hand over his mouth to shut him up before he got them all killed.

“All of them,” Luthien said firmly. “And I’ll have the sword as well.”

“Why should I give to you anything?” Ethan asked.

“Do not!” roared Luthien as the laughter began to mount around him once more. “I ask for nothing from one so cowardly as to disclaim his heritage. But I’ll have what I desire, by spilled blood if not by family blood!”

Ethan’s head tilted back at that open challenge. “We have fought before,” he said.

Luthien didn’t answer.

“I was victorious,” Ethan reminded.

“I was younger.”

Ethan looked to Asmund, who made no move.

“The slaves are not yours to give,” said Rennir. “The capture was mine.”

Ethan nodded his agreement.

“Fight for the sword, then,” offered Asmund.

“All of them,” Luthien said firmly.

“For the sword,” Ethan corrected. “And for your freedom, and the freedom of Katerin and the little one. Nothing more.”

“That much, save the sword, was already offered,” Luthien argued.

“An offer rescinded,” said Ethan. “You challenged me openly. Now you will see it through, though the gain is little more than what you would have found without challenge, and the loss—and you will lose—is surely greater!”

Luthien looked to Asmund and saw that he would find no sympathy there, and no better offers. He had stepped into dynamics that he did not fully understand, he realized. It seemed to Luthien as though Asmund had desired this combat from the moment the king learned that Luthien and Ethan were brothers. Perhaps it was a test of Ethan’s loyalty, or more likely, brutal Asmund just thought it would be fine sport.