R. Salvatore - The Sword of Bedwyr

The cyclopian was not unarmed, though, still holding a broken shaft that now effectively served as a spear. Oliver’s cheer had barely left his mouth when the one-eyed brute growled and pushed ahead, catching Luthien as he tried to stand. Down went the young man, apparently impaled.

“Oh,” the halfling groaned as the roaring cyclopian put his weight behind the spear and began to grind and twist it mercilessly. On the ground, Luthien squirmed and squealed.

Oliver put his grand hat over his heart and lowered his head in respect. But then the cyclopian jerked suddenly and straightened, letting go of his weapon. He stumbled backward several steps and tried to turn, and Oliver saw that he was grabbing his belly, trying to hold in his spilling guts. Back on the ground, Luthien’s sword, the top half of the blade bloodied, was sticking straight up. Luthien sat up, tossing the spear aside, and Oliver laughed loudly as he recognized the truth of the matter. Luthien hadn’t been impaled; he had caught the cyclopian’s blade under his arm and rolled to the side as he fell to disguise the ruse.

“Oh, I do think that I am going to like this one,” the halfling said, and he tipped his hat to the victorious Luthien.

“Now, cowardly fat merchant-type, will you admit that you are defeated?” Oliver called, rapping the coach door with his rapier. “You may get out now, or come out at the end of my so fine rapier blade!”

The door creaked open and the merchant came out, followed by a painted and perfumed lady wearing a low-cut-up-high and high-cut-down-low silken crimson gown. The woman eyed the halfling incredulously, but her expression changed when she noticed the handsome young Bedwyr as he walked over to join the group.

Luthien caught her lewd gaze and returned it with an incredulous smirk. He immediately thought of Avonese, and his left hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of his bloody sword.

Three graceful hops—to the seat, to the horse’s rump, and to the ground—brought Oliver down to them, and he walked around the two prisoners. A yank of his free hand took the merchant’s belt purse, and a flick of his rapier took the woman’s jeweled necklace over her head.

“Go and search the coach,” he instructed Luthien. “I did not ask for your help, but I will graciously split the wealth.” He paused and thought for a moment, counting kills. At first, he gave Luthien credit for three of the cyclopians, half the enemy, but then he convinced himself that the driver belonged to him. “You defeated two of the six,” he announced. “So four of six items are mine.”

Luthien stood up straight, indignant.

“You think you get half?” the highwayman balked.

“I am no thief!” Luthien proclaimed. All three—Oliver, the merchant, and the lady—looked about the carnage and the dead and wounded cyclopians lying in the muck.

“You are now,” they all said together, and Luthien winced.

“The coach?” Oliver prompted after a long and silent minute slipped past. Luthien shrugged and moved by them, entering the coach. It had many compartments, most filled with food or handkerchiefs, perfume and other items for the journey. After some minutes of searching, though, Luthien found a small iron chest under the seat. He pulled it out to the open floor and hoisted it, then moved back outside.

Oliver had the merchant on his knees, stripped to his underwear and whimpering.

“So many pockets,” the halfling explained to Luthien, going through the man’s huge waistcoat.

“You may search me,” the woman purred at Luthien, and he fell back a step, banging against the coach’s open door.

“If you are hiding anything precious under there,” the halfling said to her, indicating her skintight, revealing gown, “then you are not half the woman you pretend to be!”

He was laughing at his own joke until he noticed the iron box in Luthien’s hands. Then Oliver’s eyes lit up.

“I see that it is time to go,” he said, and tossed the waistcoat away.

“What about them?” Luthien asked.

“We must kill them,” Oliver said casually, “or they will bring the whole Praetorian Guard down upon us.”

Luthien scowled fiercely. Killing armed cyclopians was one thing, but a defenseless man and woman, and wounded enemies (even if they were cyclopian) defeated on the field of honor, was something entirely different. Before the young man could begin to protest, though, the halfling moaned and slapped a hand across his face.

“Ah, but one of the one-eyes got away,” Oliver said in feigned distress, “so we cannot eliminate all witnesses. It would seem, then, that mercy would serve us well.” He looked around at the groaning cyclopians: the driver behind the team; the one trampled into the ground by Oliver’s pony, propped on one elbow now and watching the proceedings; the one that Luthien had stabbed still kneeling and holding his belly; and the one that Oliver’s horse had sent flying away standing again, though unsteadily, and making no move to come back near the robbers. With the one Oliver had sent running away, rubbing his behind, that left only the dead crossbowman atop the coach.

“Besides,” the halfling added with a smirk, “you are the only one who actually killed anybody.”

“Take me with you!” the lady screamed suddenly, launching herself at Luthien. She crashed into him, and Luthien dropped the iron box—right on both of his own feet. Inspired by the pain, the overpowering stench of the lady’s perfume, and his memories of Avonese, Luthien growled and pushed her back, and before he could think of what he was doing, he punched her right in the face, dropping her heavily to the ground.

“We must work on your manners,” Oliver noted, shaking his head. “And your chivalry,” he remarked to the merchant, who made not the slightest protest about the punch.

“But that, like the chest of treasure, can wait,” the halfling explained. “To the road, my friend!”

Luthien shrugged, not knowing what to do, not even understanding what he had done.

“Threadbare!” Oliver called, a fitting name if Luthien had ever heard one. Oliver’s ugly yellow pony trotted around the coach horses and kneeled so that the halfling could better gain his seat.

“Put the chest upon your own horse,” Oliver instructed, “and I will go and find my main gauche. And you,” he said, tapping the quivering merchant atop the head with the side of his rapier blade. “Count as you would count your own co-ins. And do not stop until you have counted them, every one, a thousand times!”

Luthien retrieved Riverdancer and secured the chest behind the horse’s saddle. Then he walked over and helped the woman back to her feet. He meant to offer a sincere apology—this was not Avonese, after all, and he and the halfling had just robbed her—but she immediately wrapped herself around him once more, biting at his earlobe. With great effort (and nearly at the cost of that ear), Luthien managed to pull her back to arm’s length.

“So strong,” she purred.

“Your lady?” Oliver began, walking Threadbare past the kneeling merchant.

“My wife,” the merchant replied sourly.

“A loyal type, I can see,” Oliver said. “But then, now we have the money!”

Luthien shoved off and ran away from the woman, getting into his saddle so quickly that he nearly tumbled off the other side. He kicked Riverdancer into a short gallop, seeing the woman running fast after him, and rushed right past Oliver, toward the bridge.

Oliver watched him with amusement, then wheeled Threadbare around to face the merchant and his woman. “Now you may tell all your fat merchant-type friends that you were robbed by Oliver deBurrows,” he said, as though that should carry some significance.