R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

“Montfort,” the man declared in a deep voice. “Rightfully named by the rightful king.”

“Uh-oh,” Oliver moaned.

“You are not of the highlands,” Luthien reasoned.

The armored man shifted on his horse, the beast prancing nervously. Luthien understood that his words had somewhat unnerved the man, for his guess had been on the mark. The man was not of Eradoch, and that meant whatever hold he had over the highlanders would be tenuous indeed. He had come to some measure of power and influence by sheer strength, probably defeating several of the greatest warriors of Eradoch. Anyone who could best him would likely inherit his position, and so Luthien already had his sights set on the man.

But with the man’s imposing size and all that armor, the young Bedwyr was not so fond of that possibility.

“Who are you, then, you who tinkles in a hard spring rain?” Oliver asked.

“A hard spring rain?” Luthien whispered incredulously to the halfling.

“Tinkle, tinkle,” Oliver whispered back.

The armored man squared his shoulders and brought himself up to his full height. “I am the Dark Knight!” he declared.

The companions thought on that one for a moment.

“But you would have to be,” Oliver reasoned.

“You have heard of me?”

“No.”

The Dark Knight grunted in confusion.

“You would have to be,” Oliver reiterated. “Is that not why it is called night?”

“What?” the exasperated man asked.

“Unless there is a moon,” Luthien offered.

Oliver smirked, pleasantly surprised. “You are getting very good at this,” he offered to his friend.

“What?” the knight demanded.

Oliver sighed and shook his head. “So silly tinkler,” he said. “If you were not dark, you would be the day.”

They couldn’t see the man’s face under the metal helm, but they both imagined his jaw drooping open. “Huh?” he grunted.

The two friends looked to each and exchanged helpless shrugs. “Peasant,” they said in unison.

“I am the Dark Knight!” the armored man declared.

“Charge straight in?” Luthien offered.

“Of course,” Oliver replied, and they both whooped, Luthien drawing Blind-Striker and kicking Riverdancer into a great leaping start. Threadbare didn’t follow, though, Oliver sitting passively.

Luthien knew that he was in trouble as soon as the knight’s lance dipped his way, as soon as he realized that the long weapon would slip past his guard, and probably through his chest, before he ever got close enough to nick his opponent’s horse on the tip of its nose. He brought his sword arm down and grabbed up Riverdancer’s bridle in both hands—only riding skills, not fighting skills, could save him now.

Luthien waited until the last possible second, then cut Riverdancer to the left, angling away from the knight, and the strong and agile steed responded, cutting hard, clumps of turf flying from its hooves. The knight apparently expected the move, though, for he, too, shifted, turning his lance enough to nick Luthien across the shoulder, a painful sting. The young Bedwyr grimaced and whipped his hands across the other way, yanking hard on Riverdancer’s reins.

Again, the mighty horse responded, digging hooves deep into the sod. Luthien started to bring Blind-Striker up, but felt a twang in his right shoulder. Quick-thinking and quick-moving, the young Bedwyr caught up the sword in his left hand instead, and lashed out, striking hard along the center of the lance. Then he shifted his angle and swiped a vicious backhand that slammed the edge of the blade against the knight’s breastplate.

The sword bounced harmlessly away.

The two riders pounded away from each other, the knight discarding his snapped lance and Luthien straightening in the saddle, taking up his sword in his right hand again and testing its grip. He noted the approving looks of the highlanders as he turned Riverdancer about, just short of their ranks. It was going well so far, the young Bedwyr realized, for they admired his courage, and probably they admired his horse. Riverdancer was much shorter than the Dark Knight’s steed, but wider and stronger. And Riverdancer was a Highland Morgan, as fine a steed as had ever been bred on the Fields of Eradoch. Gahris Bedwyr had paid a small fortune for the shining white mount, and in studying the approving nods now coming his way, Luthien realized that the horse had been worth every gold coin.

The opponents squared off once more. The Dark Knight reached for his sword, and had it half out of its scabbard, but then a sour look crossed his face. He regarded the sword for a moment, then slid the weapon away, taking up a flail instead. He lifted it above his head, swinging it effortlessly, the spiked iron ball spinning lazily on its heavy black chain. Better than the lance, Luthien thought, for at least he would be close enough to strike before he got struck this time.

Luthien sighed and wondered what good that might do. He had hit his opponent hard the first time, a blow that should have felled the man. Yet the Dark Knight hadn’t even grunted at the impact, and if he was feeling any pain now, he wasn’t showing it.

On came the man, and Luthien shrugged and dug his heels into Riverdancer’s powerful flanks. They passed close this time, close enough for Luthien to feel the puff of steam from the nostrils of the Dark Knight’s towering steed.

Luthien snapped off a short backhand, catching the knight under the arm as he lifted his spinning flail for a swing. Up went Blind-Striker in a quick parry, just deflecting the iron ball before it crunched Luthien’s skull.

This time, Luthien didn’t allow the pass. He knew that he had the advantage in mounts here, and so he turned Riverdancer tightly, coming around behind the Dark Knight’s steed. In a moment, he was pacing his opponent once more, and he got in three hard strikes with his sword before the armored man could turn about to retaliate. They ran the line together, side by side, hammering at each other. Luthien’s hits were mostly clean, while Blind-Striker took the momentum from the flail each and every time. Still, the heavy ball battered the young Bedwyr, and Luthien’s sword seemed to have little effect as it rebounded off the other’s heavy plating.

Finally, each of them breathing heavily, the opponents broke apart, Luthien cutting Riverdancer fast to the side. He could not win this way, he knew, for the mounted battle was too frenzied for him to find a crease in the knight’s armor. The Dark Knight apparently knew it, too, for he swung his mount about, aiming for Luthien.

“Pass!” he demanded, and on came the thundering charge once more.

Luthien bent low and whispered into Riverdancer’s ear. “I need you now,” he said to the horse. “Be strong and forgive me.” Off they charged, kicking up the sod, angling for another close pass.

Luthien hunched his shoulders close to Riverdancer’s strong neck and turned his mount right into the path of the charging opponent. The Dark Knight straightened in surprise, his horse breaking stride.

Exactly what Luthien had prayed for.

The young Bedwyr did not slow at all. Riverdancer plowed headlong into the Dark Knight’s steed, bowling the horse over so that it practically sat on the ground before it was able to regain any semblance of balance. The armored knight held on dearly, accepting the hit as Luthien thrust Blind-Striker around the tumbling horse’s neck.

Luthien, knocked dizzy from the impact of the powerful steeds, held on dearly as well. He focused squarely on his target, had known what he needed to do before he had ever begun the charge. His one attack, the sword thrust, was not for the knight’s breastplate—what would be the point?—or even for the slits in the man’s helmet, which were out of reach as the knight leaned defensively backward. Luthien swung at the man’s fingers, so that he dropped the reins. As the staggering Riverdancer shuffled to the side, Luthien looped those reins about his sword and tugged with all his strength, and the knight’s horse lurched violently.