R. Salvatore - The Sword of Bedwyr

For once, Oliver remained silent and let the young man sort out his thoughts, understanding that whatever Luthien might have to say could be important—both to Oliver and to Luthien.

“I no longer claim any of the rights that accompany the name of Bedwyr,” Luthien said firmly. “I have fled my house, leaving the corpse of a cyclopian guardsman behind. And now I have chosen my course.” He held his sword up before him, letting its fine blade shine in the sun, though it was still a bit stained with the blood of the merchant’s guard. “I am as much an outlaw as are you, Oliver deBurrows,” Luthien proclaimed. “An outlaw in a land ruled by an outlaw king. Thus will my sword swing for justice.”

Oliver raised his own rapier in like salute and outwardly proclaimed his agreement. He thought Luthien a silly little boy, though, who didn’t understand either the rules or the dangers of the road. Justice? Oliver nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Luthien’s sword might swing for justice, but Oliver’s rapier jabbed for profit. Still, the young man was a mighty ally—Oliver couldn’t deny that. And, Oliver mused, lending some credibility to the smile he was showing to Luthien, if justice was truly Luthien’s priority, then more of the profits might fall Oliver’s way.

Suddenly, the highwayhalfling was beginning to think that this arrangement might not be so temporary. “I accept your explanation,” he said. “And I apologize for my too rash actions.” He went to tip his hat again, then realized that it was lying on the ground. Luthien saw it, too, and started to move for it, but Oliver waved him back. Leaning low off the side of his saddle, the halfling tipped his rapier low, slipping the point in under the hat. A flick and twist brought the hat spinning atop the rapier’s tip as Oliver lifted the weapon. He thrust it up, then jerked his rapier away, and the hat dropped in a spin, landing perfectly atop the halfling’s head.

Luthien sat amazed, answering Oliver’s smug smile with a shake of his head.

“But we are not safe on the island, fellow outlaw,” Oliver said, his expression turning serious. “That merchant-type knew me, or of me, and expected me. He was probably on his way to your own father to organize a hunt for Oliver deBurrows.” The halfling paused and snorted. He looked at Luthien and his chuckle became a full-blown laugh.

“Oh, wonderful irony!” Oliver cried. “He goes to the eorl for assistance, while the eorl’s own son comes to my assistance!” Oliver’s laughter continued to grow, and Luthien joined in, more to be polite than with any real feelings of mirth.

They did not make the ferry that afternoon, as Luthien had hoped. He explained to Oliver that the ferries would not cross the choppy seas at night. In the darkness, the island spotters could not see if any dorsal whales had come into the narrow channels. A description of the ten-ton man-eaters was all that Oliver needed to be convinced that they should forgo plans to be off the island that same day and set up their camp.

Luthien sat up long into the night in the drizzle beside the hissing and smoking low campfire. To the side, Threadbare and Riverdancer stood quietly, heads bowed, and across the fire, Oliver snored contentedly.

The young man huddled under his blanket, warding off the chill. He still could not believe all that had happened over the last few days: Garth Rogar, his brother, the cyclopian guardsman, and now the attack on the merchant wagon. It remained unreal to Luthien; he felt as if he had fallen into a river of uncontrollable events and was simply being swept along in their tide.

No, not uncontrollable, Luthien finally decided. Undeniable. The world, as it turned out, was not as he had been brought up to expect it to be. Perhaps his last actions in Dun Varna—his decision to leave and his fight with the cyclopian—had been some sort of passage into adulthood, an awakening for the naive child of a noble house.

Perhaps, but Luthien knew that he still had no solid answers. He knew, too, that he had followed his heart both in Dun Varna and when he had seen Oliver’s fight with the merchant’s guards. He had followed his heart, and out there, on the road, in the drizzle of a chill August night, Luthien had little else to guide him.

The next day was similarly gray and wet, but the companions made good time out of their encampment. Soon the smell of salt water filled their nostrils and put a tang in their mouths.

“If the day was clear,” Luthien explained, “we could see the northern spurs of the Iron Cross from here.”

“How do you know?” Oliver asked him sarcastically. “Have you ever had a clear day on this island?” The banter was light and so were their hearts (Oliver’s always seemed to be!). Luthien felt somehow relieved that day, as though he would find his freedom when he crossed the narrow channel and stepped onto Eriador’s mainland. The wide world beckoned.

But first, they had to get across.

From the top of a rocky bluff, the two got their first view of the Diamondgate Ferry, and of the mainland across the narrow channel. The place was called Diamondgate for a small, diamond-shaped isle, a lump of wet black rock in the middle of the channel, halfway between the shores.

Two flat, open barges sat at the ends of long wooden wharves whose supporting beams were as thick as ancient oaks. Off to the side loomed the remains of the older wharves, equally well constructed, their demise a testament to the power of the sea.

The barges, including the two now moored across the channel, had originally been designed and built by the dwarves of the Iron Cross more than three hundred years before, and had been meticulously maintained (and replaced, when the rocks or the currents or a dorsal whale took one) by the islanders ever since. Their design was simple and effective: an open, flat landing for cargo and travelers, anchored at each corner by thick beams that arched up to a central point ten feet above the center of the landing. Here the beams connected to a long metal tube, and through this ran the thick rope that guided the ferry back and forth. A large gear showed on each side of the tube, its notches reaching in through slits along the tube’s side. A crank on the deck turned a series of gears leading to these two, which in turn caught the knots on the rope and pulled the ferry along the taut cord’s length. The beauty of the system was that, because of the marvelous dwarven gearing, a single strong man could pull the ferry even if it was heavily laden.

But still the crossing was always dangerous. The water this day, as every day, showed white tips on its bouncing waves and abundant rocks, especially near to Diamondgate, where the ferries could dock if they encountered any trouble.

One of the barges was always inoperable, taken down so that its guide rope could be replaced, or when its floor planking needed shoring up. Several dozen men worked long days at Diamondgate just to keep the place in operation.

“They are planning to shut down that one,” Luthien, familiar with the operation, informed Oliver, pointing to the barge on the north. “And it seems as if the other is about to leave. We must hurry, or wait perhaps hours for the next barge to cross over.” He gave a ticking sound to Riverdancer, and the horse started down the path leading to the landings.

A few minutes later, Threadbare pranced up alongside and Oliver grabbed Luthien’s arm, indicating that he should slow the pace.

“But the ferry—” Luthien started to protest.

“There is an ambush about,” Oliver explained.

Luthien stared at him incredulously, then looked back to the landing. More than a score of men moved down there, but just a pair of cyclopians, these showing no weapons and appearing as simple travelers waiting to cross. This was not common, Luthien knew, for there were few cyclopians on Bedwydrin, and those were only merchant guards or his father’s own. Still, under the edicts of King Greensparrow, cyclopians were allowed free passage as citizens of Avon, and affairs at Diamondgate did not seem so out of place.