R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Luthien nearly overbalanced and tumbled off the other side of his horse, but held on stubbornly, looking back just in time to see the Dark Knight unceremoniously slide off the rear flank of his mount, thudding hard to the ground.

Luthien slipped off Riverdancer and nearly fell facedown as the world continued to spin about him. He staggered and stumbled his way to his supine opponent, the man trying futilely to rise in his heavy armor. The flail whipped across, catching the young Bedwyr off balance.

Luthien’s eyes widened in surprise and he hurled himself backward, slipping in the mud to fall unceremoniously to the ground.

The knight rolled and managed to get up as Luthien rose, the two facing off.

“Your attack was immoral,” the Dark Knight declared. “You struck my horse!”

“My horse struck your horse,” Luthien corrected indignantly.

“There are rules of combat!”

“There are rules of survival!” Luthien countered. “How am I to fight one armored such as yourself? What risks do you take?”

“That is the advantage of station,” the Dark Knight roared. “Come on, then, sans equine .”

Sitting not far away, Oliver cocked his head curiously at the armored man’s demeanor. That last statement was a Gascon saying, reserved for nobles mostly, meaning competition, not always combat, without horses. Who was this knight? Oliver wondered.

Luthien approached cautiously. He could hit the man a dozen times to little effect, but one swipe of the flail would cave in his skull, or reduce his ribs to little bits. And his right arm was hanging loose, still feeling the sting from the lance cut. The two circled and launched measured strikes for a few passes, then the Dark Knight roared and came in hard, whipping his flail across and back.

The man couldn’t move so well in that encumbering armor, though, and Luthien easily danced aside, swatting the knight on the back of the shoulder. The knight turned and tried to follow, but the agile Luthien was always a step ahead of him, tap-tapping with Blind-Striker , as much to prod the man on as to inflict any real damage. Already the young Bedwyr could hear the man panting inside that heavy suit.

“An honorable man would stand and fight!” the Dark Knight proclaimed.

“A stupid man would stand and die,” Luthien countered. “You speak of honor, yet you hide behind a wall of metal! You see my face, yet I see no more than dark orbs through the slits of a helm!”

That gave the man pause, for he stopped abruptly and lowered his flail. “A point well taken,” he said, and to Luthien’s amazement, he began to unstrap his heavy helmet. He pulled it off and Luthien grew even more amazed, for the man was much older than Luthien had expected, probably three times the young Bedwyr’s age! His face was rugged and wide, skin leathery and creased by deep lines. His gray hair was cropped short, but he wore a huge mustache, also gray, a line of bushy hair from mid-cheek to mid-cheek. His eyes, dark brown, were large and wide-spaced, with a thick nose between, and only his chin was narrow, jutting forward proudly.

The Dark Knight tossed his helmet to the ground. “Now,” he said, “fight me fairly, young upstart.”

He charged once more, and this time, Luthien met the rush, Blind-Striker whipping across, its angle and timing perfect to intercept the flail across the chain, halfway between the ball and the handle. The ball wrapped tightly around Luthien’s sword. He tugged hard, thinking to take the weapon from the man, but the Dark Knight proved incredibly strong, and though Luthien had the advantage of angle, the older man held on.

Luthien felt the throb in his shoulder, but forgot about it as the Dark Knight’s armored left hand came across in a vicious hook, slamming Luthien right in the face. Warm blood rolled down from Luthien’s nose and over his lip, tasting salty-sweet.

The young Bedwyr staggered back a step, then wisely threw himself forward before the man could land a second weighted punch. The Dark Knight did snap his knee up, and while Luthien was wise enough to turn one leg in to protect his groin, he took the hit on the thigh.

Luthien responded by jamming his open palm up under the Dark Knight’s chin, breaking the clench. The young Bedwyr leaped back, tugging and scrambling frantically, pulling hard on the knot the flail’s chain had become.

He got punched again, in the chest, then again, right on his wounded shoulder. He reacted in kind and grimaced at the sudden throbbing in his hand after banging it hard off the Dark Knight’s unyielding breastplate.

A left hook crashed in just under Luthien’s ribs. He ran to the side, throwing his momentum into the tangle of weapons, trying to change the angle, or to push the flail handle back over the older man’s hand, forcing him to let go.

Finally, Blind-Striker slid free of its tangle, so quickly that Luthien skidded right past his opponent and stumbled down to one knee. The Dark Knight turned to follow, whipped the flail in a circular motion over his head. His thought was to seize the moment and attack immediately, but Blind-Striker ’s blade was much finer and stronger than the Dark Knight had anticipated, and the flail was an old weapon, as old as its wielder. The iron chain, weakened by age and by the finest blade in all of Eriador, split at one link and the studded ball flew through the air.

Across the way, Threadbare hopped to Oliver’s command, and the halfling deftly lifted his hands, protected by his fine green gauntlets, to basket-catch the object.

The Dark Knight, apparently oblivious to the loss of his weapon, roared and rushed ahead, waving the handle and half a chain. He slowed only upon noticing Luthien’s suddenly amused expression.

“Excuse me, good sir knight,” came the halfling’s call from behind. The Dark Knight turned slowly, to see Oliver dangling the lost flail ball by the end of its broken chain. The knight looked from Oliver to his weapon, his face screwed up with disbelief. Then he saw the horizon suddenly, and then the gray sky, as Luthien kicked his legs out from under him.

The young Bedwyr was atop him, straddling his breastplate, the tip of Blind-Striker at the man’s throat.

“I beg of you,” the Dark Knight began, and Luthien thought it out of character for this one to whine. “Please, good sir, allow me to offer a final prayer to God before you kill me,” the Dark Knight explained. “You have won fairly—I offer no protests, but I ask that I might make my final peace.”

Luthien didn’t know how to react, so surprised to hear such talk from one of Greensparrow’s professed followers. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Of course, of course, my name,” the Dark Knight said. “And I, of course, must know yours before you kill . . .” The man sighed and let that thought go.

“I am Estabrooke of Newcastle,” he declared. “Lord Protector, First of the Sixth Cavaliers.”

Luthien looked over at Oliver, his lips silently mouthing, “First of the Sixth?” The young Bedwyr had heard of the group before, a band of knights dedicated as personal bodyguards of the king of Avon and of the governors of the six major cities in that southern kingdom. Luthien had thought the group disbanded with the arrival of Greensparrow, for the cyclopians now served as Praetorian Guard. Apparently, he thought wrong.

Luthien paused, understanding that he had to consider this matter very carefully. He lifted Blind-Striker away from the knight’s throat and wiped the blood from his face, all the while staring at the curious old man lying supine below him.

“You are a long way from Newcastle,” Luthien said.

The man straightened himself, seemed to regain a bit of his dignity despite his predicament. “I am on a mission,” he declared. “The first for a cavalier since . . .” His face screwed up as he tried to remember. It had indeed been a long time.