R. Salvatore: The Sword of Bedwyr

“Viscount Aubrey,” the one-eyed herald began, “cousin of Duke Morkney of Montfort, sixth of eight, fourth in line to . . .” And so it went on for several minutes, the cyclopian rambling through unimportant, even minuscule details of this viscount’s heritage and lineage, feats of valor (always exaggerated, and still seeming not so tremendous to Gahris, who had lived in the tough land of Bedwydrin for more than sixty years) and deeds of generosity and heroism.

A viscount, the island eorl mused, thinking that practically every fourth man in Eriador seemed to hold claim to that title, or to one of baron.

“And his fellow, Baron Wilmon,” the cyclopian went on, and Gahris sighed deeply at the not-unexpected proclamation, his thoughts proven all too true. Mercifully, Wilmon’s introductory was not nearly as long as Aubrey’s, and as for their female escorts, the cyclopian merely referred to them as “the ladies, Elenia and Avonese.”

“Ellen and Avon,” Gahris muttered under his breath, for he understood the level of pretension that had come to the normally level-headed people of the lands.

In strode the viscount and his entourage. Aubrey was a meticulously groomed, salty-haired man in his mid-forties, Wilmon a foppish and swaggering twenty-five. Both wore the weapons of warriors, sword and dirk, but when they shook Gahris’s hands, he felt no callouses, and neither had a grip indicating that he could even swing a heavy sword. The ladies were worse yet, over-painted, over-perfumed creatures of dangerous curves, clinging silk garments, and abundant jewelry that tinkled and rattled with every alluring shift. Avonese had seen fifty years if she had seen a day, Gahris knew, and all the putty and paint in the world couldn’t hide the inevitable effects of nature.

She tried, though—oh, how this one tried!—and Gahris thought it a pitiful sight.

“Viscount Aubrey,” he said politely, his smile wide. “It is indeed an honor to meet one who has so gained the confidence of our esteemed duke.”

“Indeed,” Aubrey replied, seeming rather bored.

“May I inquire what has brought such an unexpected group so far to the north?”

“No,” Aubrey started to answer, but Avonese, slipping out of Aubrey’s arm to take hold of the eorl’s, interrupted.

“We are on holiday, of course!” she slurred, her breath scented by wine.

“We are come now from the Isle of Marvis,” added Elenia. “We were informed that none in all the northland could set a banquet like the eorl of Marvis, and we were not disappointed.”

“They do have such fine wines!” added Avonese.

Aubrey seemed to be growing as tired of the banter as Gahris, though Wilmon was too engaged with a stubborn hangnail to notice any of it.

“The eorl of Marvis has indeed earned his reputation as a fine host,” Gahris remarked sincerely, for Bruce Durgess was a dear friend of his, a common sufferer in the dark times of the wizard-king’s rule.

“Fair,” Aubrey corrected. “And I suppose that you, too, will treat us with renowned leek soup, and perhaps a leg of lamb as well.”

Gahris started to reply, but wasn’t sure what to say. The two dishes, along with a multitude of fish, were indeed the island’s staple.

“I do so hate leek soup,” Aubrey went on, “but we have enough provisions on board our vessel and we shan’t be staying for long.”

Gahris seemed confused—and that sincere expression hid well his sudden sense of relief.

“But I thought . . .” the eorl began, trying to sound truly saddened.

“I am late for an audience with Morkney,” Aubrey said haughtily. “I would have bypassed this dreary little island altogether, except that I found the eorl of Marvis’s arena lacking. I had heard that the islands were well-stocked with some of the finest warriors in all of Eriador, but I daresay that a half-crippled dwarf from the deepest mines of Montfont could have easily defeated any of the fighters we witnessed on the Isle of Marvis.”

Gahris said nothing, but was thinking that Aubrey’s description of Bedwydrin as a “dreary little island” would have cost the man his tongue in times past.

“I do so hope that your warriors might perform better,” Aubrey finished.

Avonese squeezed Gahris’s arm tightly, apparently liking the hardened muscles she felt there. “Warriors do so inspire me,” she whispered in the eorl’s ear.

Gahris hadn’t expected a morning arena fight, but was glad to oblige. Hopefully, the viscount would be satisfied with the show and would be gone before lunch, saving Gahris the trouble of setting a meal—be it lamb or leek soup!

“I will see to the arrangements personally,” Gahris said to Aubrey, smoothly pulling free of Avonese’s nailed clutches as he spoke. “My attendants will show you to where you might refresh yourselves after the long journey. I will return in a few moments.”

And with that he was gone, hustling down the stone corridors of his large house. He found Luthien just a short distance away, dressed in fine clothes and freshly scrubbed after his morning workout.

“Back to the yard with you,” Gahris said to his son’s confused expression. “They have come to see a fight and nothing more.”

“And I am to fight?”

“Who better?” Gahris asked, patting Luthien roughly on the shoulder and quickly leading him back the way he had come. “Arrange for two combats before you take your turn—at least one cyclopian in each.” Gahris paused and furrowed his brow. “Who would give you the best fight?” he asked.

“Ethan, probably,” Luthien replied without hesitation, but Gahris was already shaking his head. Ethan wouldn’t fight in the arena, not anymore, and certainly not for the entertainment of visiting nobles.

“Garth Rogar, then,” Luthien said, referring to a barbarian warrior, a giant of a man. “He has been in fine form of late.”

“But you will defeat him?”

The question seemed to sting the proud young warrior.

“Of course you will.” Gahris answered his own question, making it seem an absurd thing to ask. “Make it a worthy fight, I beg. It is important that Bedwydrin, and you, my son, be given high praise to the duke of Montfort.”

Gahris stopped then, and Luthien bounded away, brimming with confidence and with the sincerest desire to please both his father and the visiting nobles.

“How embarrassed will Luthien be to fail before his father and his father’s honored guests?” the huge man bellowed to the approving laughter of many other fighters. They sat in the low and sweaty chambers off the tunnels that led to the arena, testing the feel of their weapons while awaiting their call.

“Embarrassed?” the young Bedwyr replied, as though he was truly stunned. “There is no embarrassment in victory, Garth Rogar.”

A general, mocking groan rolled about the chamber as the other warriors joined in the mood.

The huge Rogar, fully a foot taller than Luthien’s six feet two inches, with arms as thick as Luthien’s legs, dropped his whetstone to the floor and deliberately rose. Two strides took him right up to the still-seated young Bedwyr, who had to turn his head perpendicular to his body to see tall Garth Rogar’s scowl.

“You fall this day,” the barbarian promised. He began a slow turn, shoulders leading so that his grim expression lingered on Luthien for a long moment. All the room was hushed.

Luthien reached up and slapped Garth Rogan across the rump with the flat of his sword, and howls of laughter erupted from the warriors, Garth Rogan included. The huge northman spun about and made a mock charge at Luthien, but Luthien’s sword snapped out quicker than the eye could follow, its waving tip defeating the charge.

They were all friends, these young warriors, except for the few cyclopians who sat in a distant corner, eyeing the play disdainfully. Only Garth Rogar had not been raised on Bedwydrin. He had floated into Dun Varna’s harbor on the flotsam of a shipwreck just four years previously. Barely into his teens, the noble young barbarian had been taken in by the islanders and treated well. Now, like the other young men of Bedwydrin, he was learning to fight. It was all a game to the young rascals, but a deadly serious game. Even in times of peace, such as they had known all their lives, bandits were not uncommon and monsters occasionally crawled out of the Dorsal.