R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

“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 charged 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.