R. Salvatore - The Sword of Bedwyr

Threadbare reared on his hind legs, and with a tip of his hat, Oliver was off.

“I am Oliver deBurrows,” the halfling said, bringing his pony to a trot after the two had put more than a mile behind them. “Highwayman,” he added, sweeping his hat off gracefully.

Luthien started to likewise introduce himself, but the halfling was not finished. “I used to say ‘highwayhalfling,’” he explained, “but the merchants did not take that so seriously and I had to more often use my rapier blade. To make my point, if you understand my meaning.” As he spoke, he snapped the rapier from the loop on his baldric and thrust it Luthien’s way.

“I understand,” Luthien assured him, gently pushing the dangerous weapon away. He tried to introduce himself but was promptly cut off.

“And this is my fine horse, Threadbare,” Oliver said, patting the yellow pony. “Not the prettiest, of course, but smarter than any horse, and most men, as well.”

Luthien patted his own shaggy mount and started to say, “Riverda—”

“I do appreciate your unexpected help,” Oliver went on, oblivious to Luthien’s attempt to speak. “Of course, I could have defeated them by myself—there were only six, you see. But take help where you find help, my papa halfling always say, and so I am grateful to . . .”

“Luth—” Luthien began.

“Of course, my gratitude will not carry beyond the split of the profits,” Oliver quickly added. “One in four for you.” He eyed Luthien’s rather plain dress with obvious disdain. “And that will probably be more wealth than you have ever seen.”

“Probably,” the son of the eorl of Bedwydrin said immediately, trying to hide his smirk. Luthien did realize, though, that he had left his home without taking much in the way of wealth. He had enough to cross on the ferry and support himself for a few days, but when he had left Dun Varna, he hadn’t really thought much beyond that.

“Not in debt, then,” Oliver said, barely pausing for a breath, before Luthien, for the fourth time, could offer his name. “But I will allow you to ride beside me, if you wish. That merchant-type was not surprised to see me—and he knew all along that he could have kept me away by showing his six guards openly. Yet he hid them,” the halfling reasoned, seeming as if he was speaking to himself. Then he snapped his fingers and looked straight at Luthien so quickly that he startled the young man.

“I do think that he hid the one-eyes in the hopes of luring me in!” Oliver exclaimed. He paused for just an instant, stroking his goatee with one of his green-gloved hands.

“Yes, yes,” he went on. “The merchant-type knew I was on the road—this is not the first time I have robbed him at rapier point. I got him outside of Princetown once, I do believe.” He looked up at Luthien, nodding his head. “And of course, the merchant-type would have heard my name in any case. So you may ride with me,” he offered, “for a while. Until we are beyond the traps this merchant-type has no doubt set.”

“You think that the danger is not behind us?”

“I just said that.”

Luthien again hid his smirk, amazed at how the little one had just pumped himself up to be some sort of legendary highwayman. Luthien had never heard of Oliver deBurrows before, though the merchants traveling to his father’s house in Dun Varna often brought tales of thieves along the road.

“I assure you,” Oliver began, but he stopped and looked at Luthien curiously. “You know,” he said, seeming somewhat perturbed, “you really should properly introduce yourself when traveling beside someone you have never met. There are codes of etiquette, particularly for those who would be known as proper highwaymen. Ah well,” he finished with a great sigh, “perhaps you will learn better in your time beside Oliver deBurrows.”

“I am Luthien,” the young Bedwyr shouted quickly, before Oliver could interrupt him once more. He wondered if he should, perhaps, go by an alias. But he couldn’t think of one at that moment, and he really didn’t see the point. “Luthien Bedwyr of Dun Varna. And this is Riverdancer,” he added, giving the horse another pat.

Oliver tipped his hat, then pulled up short on his pony. “Bedwyr?” he asked, as much to himself as to Luthien, as though he wanted to hear the ring of the name again. “Bedwyr. This name is not unknown to me.”

“Gahris Bedwyr is the eorl of Bedwydrin,” Luthien said.

“Ah!” Oliver agreed, pointing one finger up into the air and smiling widely in recognition. That smile went away in an incredulous blink. “Family?”

“Father,” Luthien admitted.

Oliver tried to respond, but nearly choked instead. “And you are out here on the road—for sport!” the halfling reasoned. In Gascony, where Oliver had spent most of his life, it was not uncommon for the rowdy children of nobles to get into all sorts of trouble, including ambushing merchants on the road, knowing that their family connections would keep them free. “Draw your sword, you silly little boy!” the halfling cried, and out whipped his rapier and his main gauche. “I so much do not approve!”

“Oliver!” Luthien replied, swinging Riverdancer about to put some ground between himself and the fuming halfling. “What are you talking about?” As the halfling turned his pony to pursue, Luthien grudgingly drew his weapon.

“You bring disgrace to every reputable highwayman in all the land!” the halfling went on. “What need have you of co-ins and jew-wels?” Threadbare sidled up close to Riverdancer, and the halfling, though he was sitting at only about half Luthien’s height and could barely reach the man’s vital areas, thrust forward his rapier.

Luthien’s sword intercepted the weapon and turned it aside. Oliver countered with a rapid series of thrusts, feints and cuts, even slipping in a deceptive jab with the main gauche.

Skilled Luthien defeated every move, kept his balance perfect and his sword in proper defensive posture.

“But it is a game for the son of an eorl,” Oliver remarked sarcastically. “He is too bored in his daily duties of cowering his subjects.” The thrusts became fiercer still, Oliver apparently going for a kill.

That last line got to Luthien, though, insulted him and insulted his father, who had never acted in such a way. He rocked back in his saddle, letting Oliver play out his fury, then came on with an attack routine of his own, slapping the rapier out wide and swiping his sword across fiercely. Oliver’s main gauche intercepted, and the halfling squealed, thinking that he could send Luthien’s weapon flying, as he had done to the cyclopian.

Luthien was quicker than that brute, and he turned his blade before Oliver could twist the trapping dagger, nearly taking the main gauche from the halfling’s hand and freeing the sword so that it could complete its swing.

Oliver’s great hat fell to the ground, and both the halfling and Luthien knew that Oliver’s head would have still been inside if Luthien had so desired.

A tug on the reins sent Threadbare back several feet, putting some distance between the combatants. “I could be wrong,” the halfling admitted.

“You are wrong,” Luthien answered sternly. “You could find fault with Gahris Bedwyr, that I do not doubt. He does not follow his heart if that course would go against the edicts of King Greensparrow, or the duke of Montfort, or any of the duke’s many emissaries. But on pain of death, never again speak of Gahris as a tyrant!”

“I said I could be wrong,” Oliver replied soberly.

“As for me . . .” Luthien went on, his voice subdued, for he was not sure of how to proceed. What of me? he wondered. What had happened this day? It all seemed a surrealistic blur to the suddenly confused Luthien.