R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

And so it went for many minutes. A third of the horsemen had been pulled down, but many more cyclopians than that were dead around them, and many more scrambled to get away.

Luthien pressed on, followed the mass, hacking with abandon. Every so often he yelled out, “Eriador free!” and he sighed every time he was answered, every time he found confirmation that he had not been totally separated from his comrades.

It was not a long battle—not like the assault on Caer MacDonald’s walls, or even like the swirling mass within the courtyard after the gates had been breached. The cyclopians, their morale low, seeing an easy victory become something terrible, broke apart wherever they were hit hard, scattering, trying to re-form into some defensive posture. But each time, they were hit again by the fierce Eriadorans; each time, their pocket formations were blasted apart.

By the time the cyclopians had come to fully understand the weight of the unexpected force from the south, several hundred were dead, and the presence of a wizard among the ranks of the fisherfolk, indeed a very powerful wizard, struck terror into their hearts. They had grown up under Greensparrow, the personal force of the wizard-king, and they knew.

They knew.

There was more organization and more determination wherever Belsen’Krieg and his mounted undercommanders made their appearance, but even the huge one-eyed general understood this disaster. He kept hoping that the three thousand across the river would join in, but that was not what he had instructed them to do. Belsen’Krieg recognized the limitations of his own race. The Praetotian Guard were fabulous soldiers, disciplined and brave (for cyclopians), but they did not improvise. They were led by a single figurehead, in this case Belsen’Krieg, and they moved as extensions of his will to direct and straightforward commands. Those brutes across the river had been told to dig in and hold the ground, and so they would, sitting there stupidly while the main force was massacred on the field.

The cyclopian general spotted Luthien and the Caer MacDonald cavalry, chopping his ranks apart directly south of his position. As soon as he recognized the young Bedwyr, the crimson-caped man from the river, Belsen’Krieg understood who had precipitated this ambush. As Luthien had recognized him as the cyclopian general, so he recognized Luthien’s authority.

The cyclopian was too filled with rage to tip his shining helm at his cunning adversary. He wanted to pound his ponypig over to Luthien and chop the man down! But Belsen’Krieg was smarter than that. His formation, the classic military square at the start of the charge, was no more, and he could not reorganize any significant portion of his frightened and weary force. Not now. Not with the press from two sides and a wizard hurling lightning from the skies.

He thought of gathering as many as he could and charging straight to the east, toward the river, in an attempt to link up with his other force, but the scouts he sent out among the ranks came back shaking their ugly heads, for the main host from Caer MacDonald had come in at the southeastern corner and had already joined with the folk of Port Charley.

Belsen’Krieg looked again to the south, spotted Luthien for just a moment, crimson cape flying, sword swinging high. That one again , the cyclopian thought. That miserable human has done this, all of this.

The word came from Belsen’Krieg then, a command the Praetorian Guard were not used to following. “Run away!”

Luthien gradually came out of the mass of fighters, or rather, the mass gradually diminished about him. He had to work harder to search out targets then, and whenever he spotted a cyclopian, he kicked his horse into a short gallop and ran the brute down.

He was bearing down on one such enemy, the cyclopian’s back to him, when the creature lurched over and groaned, apparently grabbing at its groin. Out from the side came a familiar, dashing halfling, the wide brim of his hat drooping low under the weight of snow.

Oliver ran about the brute, stabbing it repeatedly with his rapier.

Luthien was thrilled and surprised, so much so that he hardly noticed a second brute coming in at the halfling’s back.

“Oliver!” he cried out, and he feared that he was too late.

But the ever-alert halfling was not caught unawares. He spun away from the brute he was fighting, down to one knee, and stabbed as the cyclopian whipped its sword high above his head. The rapier tip sank deep, into the one-eye’s groin. Like its companion before it, the brute bent low and groaned, and Oliver’s next thrust put a clean hole in its throat.

The halfling looked up then, as Luthien’s horse pounded by, the young Bedwyr finishing off the first cyclopian Oliver had stung with one vicious swipe of Blind-Striker .

“I have lost my horse!” Oliver cried at his friend.

“Behind you!” came Luthien’s reply as yet another Praetorian Guard, a huge cyclopian brandishing a spiked club, charged at Oliver’s back.

Oliver whirled about and dropped; Luthien charged by, slicing his sword up at the brute. To its credit, the cyclopian got its club up to deflect Blind-Striker , though Luthien’s momentum as his mount passed ripped the weapon from the one-eye’s hand. The brute couldn’t block Oliver’s thrust, again low, aimed at that most sensitive of areas.

Luthien turned and finished the defenseless cyclopian as it doubled over.

“Why do you keep hitting them there?” demanded Luthien, a bit disgusted by Oliver’s tendency for low blows.

“Oh,” huffed the halfling as though he was wounded by the accusation. “If you were my size, you would swing for the eyeball?” Luthien’s shoulders drooped and he sighed, and Oliver snapped his fingers in the young Bedwyr’s direction.

“Besides,” Oliver said coyly, “I thought you were fond of cabarachee shots.” Luthien’s eyes narrowed as he caught the reference to Katerin that night in the Dwelf. “This one-eye,” Oliver pressed on, “perhaps he will fall in love with me.” The snickering halfling glanced down at the brute, dead on the field. He shrugged and looked back at Luthien. “Well, perhaps he would have.”

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.