R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Estabrooke sheared off Praehotec’s raised arm.

The demon’s other arm came around, battering the man; twin beams became one before Praehotec’s eyes, flashing out, searing through the knight’s armor, aimed at his heart. The stump of the demon’s other arm became a weapon as Praehotec whipped it back and forth, sending a spray of acidic blood into the slits of Estabrooke’s helm.

Still Estabrooke sang, through the blindness and the pain, and he slashed again, gouging a wing, digging into the side of the demon’s chest with tremendous force.

Praehotec, balanced on just one foot, rocked to the side and nearly tumbled. But the beast came back furiously, with a tremendous, hooking blow that rang like a gong when it connected with the side of Estabrooke’s helm and sent the cavalier flying away, to crumple in the corner near to the battered door.

Finally, the wizards broke their entanglement, each scrambling to his feet, dazed and sorely stung. Several lesions showed on Brind’Amour’s skin and the sleeves of his beautiful robes were in tatters. Paragor looked no better, one leg stiff and frozen, icy blotches on his face and arms. The duke shivered and shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or simple rage, Brind’Amour could not tell.

Both were chanting, gathering their energies. Brind’Amour let Paragor lead, and when the duke loosed his power in the form of a bright yellow bolt, Brind’Amour countered with a stroke of the richest blue.

Neither bolt stopped, or even slowed, the other, and both wizards accepted the brutal hits, energy that struck about their heads and shoulders and cascaded down, grounding out at their feet, jolting them both.

“Damn you!” Paragor snarled. He seemed as if he would fall; so did Brind’Amour, the older wizard amazed at how strong this duke truly was.

But Paragor was nearing the end of his powers by then, and so was Brind’Amour, and it was not magic, not even a magical weapon, that ended the battle.

Katerin O’Hale crept up behind the wizard-duke and slammed the cyclopian cudgel down onto the center of his head, right between the hair “wings.” Paragor’s neck contracted and his skull caved in. He gave a short hop, but this time he held his footing only for a split second before falling dead to the floor.

There was no rest, no reprieve, for Praehotec. Before the demon could turn around, Oliver’s rapier dug a neat hole between the ribs of its uninjured side, and more devastating still was the fury of Luthien Bedwyr.

Luthien did not know that word Praehotec had uttered—“paladin”—but he knew the truth of Estabrooke, knew that the man was not just any warrior, but a holy warrior, grounded in principles and in his belief in God. To see him fall wounded Luthien profoundly, reminded him of the evil that had spread over all the land, of the sacrilege in the great cathedrals, where tax rolls were called, of the enslavement of the dwarfs and the elves. Now that fury was loosed in full, defeating any thoughts of fear. Luthien slashed away relentlessly with Blind-Striker , battering the demon about the shoulders and neck, pounding Praehotec down onto the sheared leg, which would not support the beast’s great weight.

Praehotec tumbled to the ground, but Luthien did not relent, striking with all his strength and all his heart. And then, amazingly, Estabrooke was beside him, that shining sword tearing horrible wounds in the demon.

Again Praehotec’s rage was aimed at the cavalier. The demon kicked out with its good foot and at the same time opened wide its maw and vomited, engulfing Estabrooke with a torrent of fire.

The knight fell away, and this time did not rise.

Luthien’s next strike, as soon as the fires dissipated, went into the demon’s open maw, drove through the back of Praehotec’s serpent mouth, and into the beast’s brain. Praehotec convulsed violently, sending Luthien scrambling away, and then the battered beast melted away and dissolved into the floor, leaving a mass of gooey green ichor.

Luthien rushed to Estabrooke and gently turned up the faceplate of the fallen knight’s helm.

Estabrooke’s eyes stared straight up, unseeing, surrounded by cracked skin, burned by demon acid. Luthien heard banging on the door, cyclopian calls for Duke Paragor, but he could not tear himself away from the grievously wounded man.

Somehow Estabrooke smiled. “I pray you,” the knight gasped, blood pouring from his mouth. “Bury me in Caer MacDonald.”

Luthien realized how great a request that was. Estabrooke, this noble warrior, had just validated the revolution in full, had asked to be buried away from his homeland, in the land that he knew to be just and closer to God.

Luthien nodded, could not speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something comforting, to insist that Estabrooke would not die, but he saw the grievous wounds and knew that anything he might say would be a lie.

“Eriador free!” Estabrooke said loudly, smiling still, and then he died.

“ Douzeper ,” Oliver whispered as he crouched beside Luthien. “Paladin. A goodly man.”

The banging on the door to the outer corridor increased.

“Come, my friend,” Oliver said quietly. “We can do no more here. Let us be gone.”

“Lie down and pretend that you are dead,” Brind’Amour said suddenly, drawing both friends from the dead cavalier. They looked at each other, and then at the wizard, curiously.

“Do it!” Brind’Amour whispered harshly. “And you, too,” he said, turning to Katerin, who seemed as confused as Luthien and Oliver.

The three did as the wizard bade them, and none of them were comfortable when their skin paled, when more blood suddenly covered Katerin and Oliver, who had not been splattered and beaten, as had Luthien.

Their startlement turned to blank amazement when they regarded the wizard, his familiar form melting away, his white hair turning gray and thinning to wild wings over his ears and his head disappearing altogether. As soon as his blue robes turned brownish-yellow, the three understood, and as one, they looked down the hallway to see the dead duke now wearing the form of Brind’Amour.

The wizard clapped his hands together and the door, swollen by Praehotec’s magic, shrunk and fell open before the blows of the cyclopians, led by Paragor’s lacky, Thowattle. The brutes skidded to a stop, overwhelmed by the grisly scene, two dead cyclopians, three mutilated humans and one halfling, and a mess of bubbling green and gray slime.

“Master?” Thowattle asked, regarding Brind’Amour.

“It is over,” Brind’Amour replied, his voice sounding like Paragor’s.

“I will clean it at once, my master!” Thowattle promised, turning to leave.

“No time!” Brind’Amour snapped, stopping the one-armed brute in its tracks. “Assemble the militia! At once! These spies wagged their tongues before I finished with them and told me that a force has indeed gathered at Malpuissant’s Wall.”

The three friends, lying still on the floor, had no idea of what the old wizard was doing.

“At once!” Thowattle agreed. “I will have servants come in to clean . . .”

“They stay with me!” Brind’Amour roared, and he waggled his fingers at the three prone friends and began a soft chant. Luthien, Oliver, and Katerin soon felt a compulsion in their muscles, and heard a telepathic plea from their wizard friend asking them to follow along and trust. Up they stood, one by one, appearing as zombies.

“What better torment for the doomed fools of Eriador than to see their heroes as undead slaves of their enemy?” the fake duke asked, and Thowattle, always a lover of the macabre, smiled wickedly. The brute gave a curt bow and its cyclopian companions followed suit. Then they were gone, and Brind’Amour, with a wave of his hand, closed the door behind them and swelled it shut once more.