R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Even as Paragor yelled his instructions, Blind-Striker came in again, a crushing blow to the side of the crouching demon’s head. Praehotec let out a wail, and no commands the wizard-duke could utter then, no reasoning, would have contained the fiend’s fury. Praehotec wheeled wildly, filling the corridor with its huge form, preventing Luthien from skipping behind this time.

They faced off, the demon still in a crouch, its wings tight to its back so they would not scrape against the walls. The corridor was small and rather narrow, had been built for defense, and its ceiling was not high enough to accommodate the tall fiend. Praehotec was at no disadvantage, though; it could fight this way easily enough.

Luthien, too, went into a crouch, backing down the hall as the demon stalked him. Clawed hands came at him, and all the young Bedwyr could do was whip his sword back and forth, parrying. Luthien nearly tripped over one of the dead cyclopians, and knew that if he had, his life would have come to a sudden and violent end.

Regaining his footing and looking up at his foe, Luthien watched in blank amazement as two dagger-length beams of red light emanated from Praehotec’s blazing eyes. The serpentine maw turned up into another of those awful grins as the demon crossed its eyes to angle the beams. As soon as the light beams touched, a third beam burst forth, a red line that hit Luthien square in the chest, hurling him backward.

He fought for his breath, felt the burn, the spot of sheer agony, and saw the grinning beast still approaching. He tried to backpedal, all his sensibilities told him to flee, but the door held firm behind him, and it could only open one way, into the corridor.

Had Luthien been thinking clearly, he might have stepped aside and thrown it wide, then run out into the palace proper. But he could not stop and reason, not with the pain and with Praehotec so close, great arms reaching for him. And then his chance was lost altogether as Praehotec worked more magic, swelling and twisting the door in its jamb so that it would not open at all.

“Will you fall down and die, you ugly offspring of a flounder and a pig?” Oliver shouted, poking the cyclopian yet again. He had pierced the creature twenty times, at least. Its face, its chest, and both its reaching hands spotted bright lines of blood. But the brute didn’t cry out, didn’t complain at all, and didn’t retreat.

Something skittered beside Oliver and he heard Luthien call out for him to escape. Without even knowing what it might be, the halfling instinctively scooped up the bauble. Then he changed tactics. He poked at the cyclopian again, but fell back as he did so, allowing the brute to get further under the bed. When it had squeezed in all the way, Oliver, much smaller and more maneuverable in the tight quarters, poked it hard in the forehead, then scampered out the other side, coming to his feet to find Katerin still tugging with all her strength, though the strangled brute was no longer fighting back.

“I think you can stop now,” the halfling remarked dryly, bringing Katerin from her apparent trance. “But if you really want to fight,” Oliver continued, dancing away from the bed as the crawling cyclopian swiped at him, “just wait a moment.”

Oliver danced away; Katerin stood up. She looked at the door, and so did the halfling, watching Paragor’s back, the wizard apparently picking at his face, as he exited the room.

Then Katerin’s attention was back to the immediate problem: the cyclopian reemerging from under the bed. She crouched and waited, and as the brute stood up, she called to it. As soon as it turned, Katerin leaped and tumbled, hooking her chained wrists under the one-eye’s chin and rolling right over the brute’s shoulder.

She came around and down hard to her knees on the floor, tugging the cyclopian viciously behind her, bending back its back and neck. She hadn’t planned the move, but thought it incredibly clever and deadly indeed, but the cyclopian was stronger than she realized, and she was not heavy. The brute’s bloody hands reached back over its shoulders and clasped Katerin by the elbows, then tugged so hard that the sturdy woman gave out a scream.

Oliver, busy examining the amber gem, casually strolled right in front of the engaged one-eye. The brute, straining to look back at Katerin, didn’t even notice him.

“Ahem,” the halfling offered, tapping his rapier on top of the brute’s head.

The cyclopian visibly relaxed its hold on Katerin and slowly turned to face front, to stare into the tip of Oliver’s rapier.

“This is going to hurt,” Oliver promised, and his blade darted forward.

The brute let go and grabbed wildly, trying to intercept, but the halfling was too quick and the rapier tip drove into the cyclopian’s eye.

Oliver walked away, examining the stone once more, trying to recall all that Siobhan had said when she had given it to Luthien. Katerin, her arms free once more, for the blinded brute was wailing and thrashing aimlessly, turned herself over to face the creature’s back, twisting the chains tight about its neck.

Had the powerful cyclopian grabbed her again, it might have been strong enough to break the strangling hold, but the one-eye was beyond reason, insane with pain. It thrashed and jerked, rolled to one side and then the other. Katerin paced it, her bindings doing their deadly work.

Oliver wasn’t watching. He moved to the bottom of the bed and hurled the amber gemstone at the wall, calling three times for Brind’Amour. It shattered when it hit, but before a single piece of it could fall to the floor, it became something insubstantial, began to swirl as a fog, becoming part of the wall, transforming the wall.

Oliver recognized the magical tunnel and understood that he and Katerin could get away. “Ah, my Brind’Amour,” the halfling lamented, and then he looked from the potential escape route to the shattered door. None of the three, not Luthien, the demon, or the wizard, was in sight.

“I hate being a friend,” the halfling whispered, and started toward the door.

Before he had gone three steps, though, two forms came rushing through the amber fog into the room. Oliver’s jaw drooped open; Katerin, finishing her latest foe, dared to hope.

Brind’Amour and Estabrooke.

The parries came furiously and in rapid succession, Blind-Striker whipping back and forth, left and right, always intercepting a hand just before it raked at Luthien—or just after, before the demon could gain a firm hold or sink its terrible claws in too deep. Luthien couldn’t keep it up; he knew that, and knew, too, there was no way for him to launch any effective counter measures.

Beams of red light began to extend from Praehotec’s blazing eyes.

Luthien screamed, put one leg against the door and hurled himself at the beast, rushing in between the extended, grasping arms. He came in high, but dropped low as Praehotec crossed its eyes, the beams joining and sending forth another jarring bolt that flashed over Luthien’s head and slammed into the door, blasting a fair-sized crack.

Luthien stabbed straight out, scoring a hit on Praehotec’s belly. Then he slashed to his right, gouging the demon’s great wing, and followed the blade, rolling around the beast, trying to go between Praehotec and the wall and get into the larger area of the corridor.

Praehotec turned, and though the giant couldn’t keep up with Luthien’s scrambling, the beast did swing a leg fast enough, lifting a knee into Luthien’s side and slamming him painfully against the corridor wall.

Luthien bounced out the other side, still scrambling on all fours, scraping his knuckles and gasping for breath, trying to make it back to the door of the wizard’s room, though he didn’t even have his head up, so bad was the pain.