Luthien's Gamble

16 Luthien’s Gamble

Luthien barely slept the rest of that night, just lay in his bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking of Siobhan and Katerin, and the enemy. Mostly the enemy: his enemy, the hulking, ugly cyclopian, more cunning than any one-eye Luthien had ever known.

Siobhan returned to the apartment an hour before dawn to find Luthien fully awake, dressed, and sitting in a chair before the hearth, staring into the rekindled flames.

“He’s not going to come,” Luthien said to her, his voice even, certain. “He’s going to take his army across the river and catch Oliver’s force unawares.”

After a few moments of silence, with Siobhan making no move to reply, Luthien glanced over his shoulder to regard the half-elf. She stood by the door, holding his cloak.

Luthien pulled on his boots and went to her, taking the garment and following her out of the apartment.

The city was already awake, full of activity, and most of the bustle was nearby. Siobhan had gathered practically all of the army, ready to follow Luthien out of Caer MacDonald. The snow had turned into sleet and then to rain, but the wind had not abated. A thoroughly miserable morning, and yet, here they were, the thousands of Caer MacDonald’s makeshift militia, ready to march hard and fast to the west, ready to brave the elements and the cyclopians. Luthien knew who had prompted them.

He looked at the half-elf then, standing calmly by his side, and his eyes were moist with tears of gratitude. He understood the depth of his gamble—if he was wrong and his adversary struck again against Caer MacDonald, the city would be overrun. Siobhan knew that, too, and so did every man and woman, every elf and dwarf, who had come out here this morning. They would take the gamble; they would trust in Luthien.

The young Bedwyr felt a huge weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, but he allowed himself only a moment of doubt. He had played this out in his mind over and over throughout the night and was confident that he understood his adversary, that he was correctly anticipating the enemy’s move.

Siobhan and Shuglin pulled him to the side.

“I am not going with you,” the dwarf informed him.

Luthien looked at Shuglin curiously, not knowing what to make of the unexpected declaration.

“The dwarfs will comprise most of the defenders left in Caer MacDonald,” Siobhan explained. “They are best with the ballistae and catapults, and they have rigged traps that only they know how to spring.”

“And we are not much good in the deep snow,” Shuglin added with a chuckle. “Beards get all icy, you know.”

Luthien realized then that Shuglin’s hesitance to go out had nothing to do with any doubts the dwarf might harbor. Caer MacDonald had to remain at least moderately defended, for even if Luthien’s assessment proved correct, the cyclopians might send a token force at the city to keep the defenders within the walls distracted.

“You have all the horses,” Shuglin began, turning to the business at hand and unrolling a map of the region. “There are a few among you who know well the trails you’ll need—we have even dispatched scouts to report back as you go along, in case the weather forces you to take an alternate route.” As he spoke, the dwarf moved his stubby finger along the map, through the foothills beyond Caer MacDonald’s southern gate, out to the west, around the Port Charley encampment, and then circling back to the north, back to the fields where they would meet the cyclopians.

They set out without delay, a long stream of six thousand desperate, determined warriors. All of the elves were among the ranks, and all of the cavalry group, though fewer than two hundred fit horses could be found in the entire city. Like ghosts in the predawn dark, they went without lights, without any bustle. Quietly.

Many carried longbows, each archer weighed down by several quivers of arrows. One group carried packs of bandages and salves, and the two dozen dwarfs that did go along were broken into groups of four, each group supporting a huge log across their shoulders. The going was slow on the slick trails—Luthien and the other horsemen had to walk their mounts all the way through the foothills—but the rain had cut hard into the snow. Every now and then they encountered a deep drift, and they bored right through it, using swords and axes as ice picks and shovels.

As the sky lightened with the approach of dawn, the Port Charley encampment came into sight in the fields to the north, just across Felling Run. Luthien found a high perch and stared long and hard in that direction, looking for some sign of the cyclopians.

Beyond the Port Charley encampment, the field was empty.

Doubts fluttered about the young Bedwyr. What if he was wrong? What if the cyclopians went to Caer MacDonald instead?

Luthien fought them away, concentrated on the chosen course. The ground leveled out just a few hundred yards to the north; a rider could get into the Port Charley encampment within twenty minutes. Luthien dispatched three, with information for Oliver. He told them to pick their way through the remaining rough terrain, then split up as they crossed the field in case cyclopian assassins were about.

Luthien saw those same three riders milling about the still-moving column a short while later. He went to them, confused as to why they were still there, and found that Siobhan had overruled him.

“My scouts near the base of the foothills have spotted cyclopian spies in the field,” the half-elf explained.

Luthien looked again to the north, to the encampment. “Our friends should be informed of our position,” he reasoned.

“We have little enough cover where we are,” Siobhan replied. “If we are found out . . .” She let that notion hang heavily in the air, and Luthien didn’t have to press the point. If his adversary found out about the move before the army of Avon marched, then their target would surely become Caer MacDonald.

Again doubts filled Luthien’s mind. If cyclopian scouts were in the field between his column and the Port Charley encampment, might they already have learned of the march?

Siobhan saw a cloud cross the young man’s face, and she put a comforting hand on Luthien’s forearm.

The entire force took up a position northeast of the Port Charley camp, filtering down to the edge of the fields, out of sight, but ready to charge across and meet the foes. It was good ground, Luthien decided, for their rush, when it came, would be generally downhill into cyclopians marching across slippery, uneven ground.

When it came, Luthien wondered, or if it came? He continued to peer across the whitened fields, empty save the blowing rain.

A long hour passed. The day brightened and the rain turned into a cold drizzle. The folk of the Port Charley encampment were stirring, breaking down their tents, readying their gear.

Another hour, and still no sign.

Siobhan waited with Luthien. “Our allies do not cross the river,” she kept saying, the implication being that Caer MacDonald was not under attack, that the cyclopians hadn’t moved.

This did little to calm Luthien. He had thought that his adversary would attack at first light, hard and fast. He wondered if the cyclopians might be going the other way, around to the east, to come in against the city. If the cyclopians could manage the rough terrain, that would be a fine plan, for then the Avon army would not be caught in between the defenders and the Port Charley group—indeed, the reinforcements from Port Charley would have to swing all the way around the city, or cross through the city itself, just to get into the battle.

Near panic, Luthien looked around at his camp, at the cavalry rubbing down the dripping horses, at the dwarfs, oil-soaking their great logs, at the archers testing the pull of their bows. The young Bedwyr suddenly felt himself a fool, suddenly believed that he had set them all up for disaster. He wanted to break down the camp then, march back swiftly to Caer MacDonald, and he almost called out commands to do just that.

But he could not. They were too fully committed to change their minds. All they could do was sit and wait, and watch.

Another hour, and the rain picked up again, mixing with heavy sleet. Still no word from Caer MacDonald, though a plume of black smoke had risen into the gray sky above the city.

Another single arsonist, Luthien told himself. Not a full-scale battle—certainly not!

He was not comforted.

He looked at Siobhan, and she, too, seemed worried. Time worked against them and their hoped-for ambush, for if the cyclopians were not attacking, they were likely gathering information.

“We should try to get word to the Port Charley group,” Luthien said to her.

“It is risky,” she warned.

“They have to know,” Luthien argued. “And if the cyclopians move against the city, we must be informed immediately to get in at their backs before they overrun the wall.”

Siobhan considered the reasoning. She, like Luthien, knew that if the cyclopians did indeed throw their weight on the city, no amount of forewarning would matter, but she understood the young man’s need to do something. She felt that same need as well.

She was just beginning to nod her agreement when the word came down the line, anxious whisper by anxious whisper.

“To the north!”

Luthien stood tall, as did all of those nearby, peering intently through the driving rain. There was the black-and-silver mass, finally making its way to the south, a course designed to encircle the Port Charley encampment and cut off any retreat to the west.

Luthien’s heart skipped a beat.

Belsen’Krieg thought himself a clever brute. Unlike most of his one-eyed race, the burly cyclopian was able and bold enough to improvise. His goal was Montfort, and if he didn’t get the city, he certainly would have some explaining to do to merciless Greensparrow.

But Belsen’Krieg knew that he could not take Montfort, not now, with this second force on the field, and likely with more rebels flocking in to join the cause. And so the cunning general had improvised. He split his remaining eleven thousand Praetorian Guards, sending three thousand straight south on the eastern side of Felling Run, to use the river as a defensive position as the Port Charley folk had used it against him. This group was not likely to see much fighting this day, but they would hold the encamped army to the western bank, where Belsen’Krieg and his remaining eight thousand would make short work of them.

The cyclopian main group had marched all morning, up to the north, then across Felling Run, and then back to the south, giving the enemy a wide berth so that they would not be discovered until it was too late. There was good ground west of the encampment, the cyclopian leader knew. He would squash this rebel rabble, and then, depending on his losses and the weather, he could make his decision: to go again against Montfort, or to turn back to the west and crush Port Charley.

Now the enemy was in sight; soon they would understand that they could not cross the river, and by the time they recognized the trap and were able to react to it, they would have no time to go in force into the mountains, either. Some might scatter and escape, but Belsen’Krieg had them.

Yes, the cyclopian leader thought himself quite clever that morning, and indeed he was, but unlike Luthien, Belsen’Krieg had not taken into account the cleverness of his adversary. As the cyclopian’s force pivoted to the good ground in the west, another force had even better ground, up above them, in the foothills to the south.

“This is not so good,” Oliver remarked to Katerin when word of the cyclopian move reached them. They stood together under a solitary tree, Threadbare and Riverdancer standing near to them, heads down against the driving sleet.

“Likely they’ve got the river blocked,” Katerin reasoned, and she motioned that way—there was some movement on the fields to the east, across Felling Run. “We have to go into the mountains, and quickly.”

“So smart,” Oliver whispered, honestly surprised. The halfling didn’t like the prospects. If the cyclopians chased them into the broken ground to the south, they could not hold their force together in any reasonable manner. Many would be slain, and many more would wander helplessly in the mountains to starve or freeze to death, or to be hunted down by cyclopian patrols.

But where else could they go? Certainly they couldn’t fight the Avon army on even, open ground.

A pop and flash, and a smell of sulfur, came out of the tree above them, and they looked up just as Brind’Amour, materializing on a branch above and to the side, found his intended perch too slippery and tumbled to the ground.

The old wizard hopped up, slapping his hands together and straightening his robes as though he had intended the dive all along. “Well,” he said cheerily, “are you ready for the day’s fight?”

Katerin and Oliver stared at the happy wizard incredulously.

“Fear not!” Brind’Amour informed them. “Our enemies are not so many, and not so good. They are hungry and weary and a long, long way from home. Come along, then, to the horses and to the front ranks.”

Oliver and Katerin couldn’t understand the man’s lightheartedness, for they did not know that the wizard had been watching through the night and the morning with far-seeing, magical eyes. Brind’Amour had known of the cyclopian pivot for some time, and he knew, too, about the secret friends perched in the south.

No need to tell Oliver and Katerin, Brind’Amour figured. Not yet.

Katerin brushed a lock of drenched hair back from her face and looked at Oliver. They exchanged helpless shrugs—Brind’Amour seemed to know what he was doing—retrieved their mounts, and followed the wizard. All the Port Charley camp came astir then, digging into defensible positions, preparing to meet the cyclopian charge.

“I do hope he has some big booms ready for them,” Oliver said to Katerin after the wizard left them in the front ranks. The halfling stared across the open ground at the masses of black and silver.

“They are not so many,” Katerin replied sarcastically, for the cyclopian force dwarfed them four to one, at least.

“Very big booms,” Oliver remarked.

It seemed fitting to them both that the storm intensified with a burst of snow just as the cyclopians began their roaring charge.

To their credit, the hardy fisherfolk of Port Charley did not break ranks and flee. Word filtered down the line that a cyclopian group had indeed entrenched on the eastern riverbank, and it seemed as if the roaring mass of enemies would simply plow over them. But they did not flee. Their bowstrings took up a humming song, and the folk began to sing, too, thinking this to be their last stand.

Brind’Amour stood back from the front ranks, his skinny white arms uplifted to the sky, head tilted far back and eyes closed as he reached out with his magic toward the storm, to the energy of the thick clouds. Many of those simple fisherfolk about him were afraid, for they did not know of magic and had grown up all of their lives hearing that it was a devil-sent power. Still, none dared to try to interrupt the wizard’s spell, and old Dozier, who remembered a time before Greensparrow, stayed close to the wizard, trying to comfort and reassure his frightened comrades.

Brind’Amour felt as if his entire body was elongating, stretching up to the sky. Of course it was not, but his spirit was indeed soaring high, reaching into those clouds and grasping and gathering the energy, focusing it, shaping it, and then hurling it down in the form of a lightning bolt into the front ranks of the charging cyclopians.

Black- and silver-clad bodies rebounded with the shock. One unfortunate brute took the blow full force, his metal armor crackling with blue sparks.

“Oh, that was very good!” Oliver congratulated. He looked up to his right, to Katerin on Riverdancer, sitting much higher than he. She wasn’t watching the scene ahead, wasn’t even looking back over her shoulder at the wizard. Rather, she was looking left, over Oliver, to the south.

“Not as good as that!” she replied.

Oliver spun about just as the horns sounded, just as Luthien’s cavalry led the charge. The halfling spotted four plumes of black smoke as the dwarfs lit the logs, so soaked with oil that they defied the storm. Ropes had been strung around flat-headed pegs on each end of those logs, two dwarfs holding on to each end, running blindly, full out down the slope, rushing down with their rolling, burning rams.

“Luthien,” Katerin whispered.

“I really do love the man,” Oliver declared.

“So do I,” Katerin said, under her breath, but Oliver caught every word, and he smiled, warmed by the thought (and more than a little jealous of his sandy-haired friend!).

The cyclopian formation became a mass of madness. The brutes fell all over each other trying to get out of the way; many hurled spears or even threw their swords in sheer desperation.

But the sturdy dwarfs held true to their course, came right up to the brutes before letting go of the logs, bowling down dozens of the one-eyes.

Right behind the dwarfs, firing bows as they came, charged Siobhan and her kin and the many men and women of Caer MacDonald. There was no way to stop on the slippery turf, but the force had no intention of stopping, or even slowing. They barreled on, their sheer momentum trampling down many enemies and sending many more running from the battle.

Tucked in the center of the line near the back of the cyclopian formation, Belsen’Krieg watched in pure frustration. The ugly general had never dreamed that the humans would be daring enough to come out of Montfort.

Another lightning bolt exploded among his troops. It killed only a few, but struck terror into the hearts of all those nearby. The battle had just begun, the folk of Port Charley hadn’t even joined in yet, but Belsen’Krieg recognized the danger. His soldiers were exhausted and weak from hunger. He had lost some to desertion during the night, something practically unheard of in the Praetorian Guard. They needed a victory now, and Belsen’Krieg had thought he would gain one, an easy one, against the small encampment.

So he had thought.

Another bolt from the skies jolted the ground near the cyclopian leader, close enough so that he was splattered with the blood of a blasted brute.

The huge one-eye took up his sword. He focused on the battle that was drawing near; with typical cyclopian savagery, Belsen’Krieg decided to lead by example.

He encountered his first enemy a minute later. A quick pass with his ponypig, a quick swipe with his sword, and the brute moved on, his weapon dripping blood.

Luthien’s group of a hundred and seventy cavalry were the first to hit the cyclopian line. Like those running behind them, the riders couldn’t hope to slow down on the slick slope, and so they didn’t try, using the sheer bulk of their strong mounts to run down the first ranks of one-eyes.

There were no targets to pick, only a mass to slash at, and Luthien did just that, connecting on every swing, cleaving helms and skulls, turning his horse this way and that, stabbing at anything that moved below him. He heard the shrieks of terror to the east, the rumble of the burning, rolling logs, and the screams as the bearded folk loosed their fury. He heard the hum of bowstrings and the clang of steel against steel and knew that all his forces had come crashing in.

A lightning bolt jolted the ground, another soon after, and Luthien, who had witnessed the fury of wizards, was glad that Brind’Amour was on his side.

Then, from up front came more screams, more ringing steel, and Luthien understood that the Port Charley folk had joined. He thought of Oliver and Katerin, on Threadbare and Riverdancer, and he hoped that his friends would survive.

But these were all fleeting, distant thoughts to the young Bedwyr, for the sea of black and silver churned below him. He took a hit on his thigh, a glancing blow that stung his horse more than it stung him. Luthien brought Blind-Striker whipping about, looking to pay the brute back. But the one-eye was already gone, had already moved along in the tangle. No problem for Luthien, though, for many other enemies were within striking distance. His great sword rushed down, smashing the side of a helmet with enough force to snap the neck of the creature wearing it.

And so it went for many minutes. A third of the horsemen had been pulled down, but many more cyclopians than that were dead around them, and many more scrambled to get away.

Luthien pressed on, followed the mass, hacking with abandon. Every so often he yelled out, “Eriador free!” and he sighed every time he was answered, every time he found confirmation that he had not been totally separated from his comrades.

It was not a long battle—not like the assault on Caer MacDonald’s walls, or even like the swirling mass within the courtyard after the gates had been breached. The cyclopians, their morale low, seeing an easy victory become something terrible, broke apart wherever they were hit hard, scattering, trying to re-form into some defensive posture. But each time, they were hit again by the fierce Eriadorans; each time, their pocket formations were blasted apart.

By the time the cyclopians had come to fully understand the weight of the unexpected force from the south, several hundred were dead, and the presence of a wizard among the ranks of the fisherfolk, indeed a very powerful wizard, struck terror into their hearts. They had grown up under Greensparrow, the personal force of the wizard-king, and they knew.

They knew.

There was more organization and more determination wherever Belsen’Krieg and his mounted undercommanders made their appearance, but even the huge one-eyed general understood this disaster. He kept hoping that the three thousand across the river would join in, but that was not what he had instructed them to do. Belsen’Krieg recognized the limitations of his own race. The Praetotian Guard were fabulous soldiers, disciplined and brave (for cyclopians), but they did not improvise. They were led by a single figurehead, in this case Belsen’Krieg, and they moved as extensions of his will to direct and straightforward commands. Those brutes across the river had been told to dig in and hold the ground, and so they would, sitting there stupidly while the main force was massacred on the field.

The cyclopian general spotted Luthien and the Caer MacDonald cavalry, chopping his ranks apart directly south of his position. As soon as he recognized the young Bedwyr, the crimson-caped man from the river, Belsen’Krieg understood who had precipitated this ambush. As Luthien had recognized him as the cyclopian general, so he recognized Luthien’s authority.

The cyclopian was too filled with rage to tip his shining helm at his cunning adversary. He wanted to pound his ponypig over to Luthien and chop the man down! But Belsen’Krieg was smarter than that. His formation, the classic military square at the start of the charge, was no more, and he could not reorganize any significant portion of his frightened and weary force. Not now. Not with the press from two sides and a wizard hurling lightning from the skies.

He thought of gathering as many as he could and charging straight to the east, toward the river, in an attempt to link up with his other force, but the scouts he sent out among the ranks came back shaking their ugly heads, for the main host from Caer MacDonald had come in at the southeastern corner and had already joined with the folk of Port Charley.

Belsen’Krieg looked again to the south, spotted Luthien for just a moment, crimson cape flying, sword swinging high. That one again, the cyclopian thought. That miserable human has done this, all of this.

The word came from Belsen’Krieg then, a command the Praetorian Guard were not used to following. “Run away!”

Luthien gradually came out of the mass of fighters, or rather, the mass gradually diminished about him. He had to work harder to search out targets then, and whenever he spotted a cyclopian, he kicked his horse into a short gallop and ran the brute down.

He was bearing down on one such enemy, the cyclopian’s back to him, when the creature lurched over and groaned, apparently grabbing at its groin. Out from the side came a familiar, dashing halfling, the wide brim of his hat drooping low under the weight of snow.

Oliver ran about the brute, stabbing it repeatedly with his rapier.

Luthien was thrilled and surprised, so much so that he hardly noticed a second brute coming in at the halfling’s back.

“Oliver!” he cried out, and he feared that he was too late.

But the ever-alert halfling was not caught unawares. He spun away from the brute he was fighting, down to one knee, and stabbed as the cyclopian whipped its sword high above his head. The rapier tip sank deep, into the one-eye’s groin. Like its companion before it, the brute bent low and groaned, and Oliver’s next thrust put a clean hole in its throat.

The halfling looked up then, as Luthien’s horse pounded by, the young Bedwyr finishing off the first cyclopian Oliver had stung with one vicious swipe of Blind-Striker.

“I have lost my horse!” Oliver cried at his friend.

“Behind you!” came Luthien’s reply as yet another Praetorian Guard, a huge cyclopian brandishing a spiked club, charged at Oliver’s back.

Oliver whirled about and dropped; Luthien charged by, slicing his sword up at the brute. To its credit, the cyclopian got its club up to deflect Blind-Striker, though Luthien’s momentum as his mount passed ripped the weapon from the one-eye’s hand. The brute couldn’t block Oliver’s thrust, again low, aimed at that most sensitive of areas.

Luthien turned and finished the defenseless cyclopian as it doubled over.

“Why do you keep hitting them there?” demanded Luthien, a bit disgusted by Oliver’s tendency for low blows.

“Oh,” huffed the halfling as though he was wounded by the accusation. “If you were my size, you would swing for the eyeball?” Luthien’s shoulders drooped and he sighed, and Oliver snapped his fingers in the young Bedwyr’s direction.

“Besides,” Oliver said coyly, “I thought you were fond of cabarachee shots.” Luthien’s eyes narrowed as he caught the reference to Katerin that night in the Dwelf. “This one-eye,” Oliver pressed on, “perhaps he will fall in love with me.” The snickering halfling glanced down at the brute, dead on the field. He shrugged and looked back at Luthien. “Well, perhaps he would have.”

A rush of cavalry stormed past the friends then, one rider skidding his horse to a stop near Luthien. “The one-eye leaders,” the man said breathlessly, “on ponypigs, getting away!”

Luthien turned his mount about and reached down to take Oliver’s hand.

“But my pony!” the halfling protested as Luthien yanked him up behind the saddle. Oliver gave a shrill whistle and peered all about, but the snow was thicker now, blowing fiercely, and the yellow pony could not be seen.

The battle had stretched out along the fields far to the north, with the cyclopians in full flight. Luthien and his cavalry group, some twenty riders, ignored the running cyclopian infantry, concentrating instead on catching up to the ponypigs.

Ponypigs could move well, especially on the muddy fields, but not as well as horses, and soon Belsen’Krieg and his dozen remaining escorts were in sight.

On came the cavalry, crying for Eriador and Caer MacDonald. The cyclopian leaders knew that they were caught, knew that they could not outrun the horses, and so they turned, ready to meet the charge.

Luthien saw the huge one-eyed general, and Belsen’Krieg saw him. It seemed somehow as if they were removed from the field then, or that all of the others were, for the young Bedwyr put his mount in line, and so did the cyclopian leader, and no fighter on either side moved to intercept or interfere.

Luthien pulled up; so did Belsen’Krieg. They sat staring at each other, hating each other.

“Get off,” Luthien said to Oliver.

The halfling considered the huge cyclopian, barely a dozen yards away. Oliver could see the hatred between these two, the rivalry, leader against leader. “Time to go,” he agreed, and rolled off the rump of Luthien’s mount, turning a complete somersault to land gingerly on his feet—well, almost, for he hit a particularly slick patch of ground and his feet flew out from under him, landing him unceremoniously on his backside. The embarrassed halfling glanced around, near to panic, but none of the others took any notice.

“Caer MacDonald!” Luthien growled at the cyclopian leader.

Belsen’Krieg tilted his huge head as he considered the words, then brightened with understanding. “Montfort,” he corrected.

Luthien yelled out and charged; Belsen’Krieg pacing his every move. Their great swords rang loudly as they passed, with no substantial damage, though Luthien’s arm tingled from the weight of the cyclopian’s blow.

Oliver realized a problem then. He was standing alone in the middle of the field, and suddenly the huge brute was closer to him than was Luthien! The halfling whimpered and considered his rapier, seeming so puny against that mounted monstrosity, but to his ultimate relief, the brute did not even notice him, just wheeled the ponypig about and began the second pass.

Again their swords slashed across up high, connecting in the air between them. But Luthien had changed his grip this time, and Blind-Striker rotated down with the momentum of Belsen’Krieg’s mighty swing, Luthien ducking and nearly getting his head shaved as the cyclopian’s blade barreled through.

The agile Bedwyr had allowed his sword to roll right out of his hand, and he caught it almost immediately, his grip reversed. He thrust it straight out, aiming at Belsen’Krieg’s thigh, but he wasn’t quite quick enough and Blind-Striker drove deep into the ponypig’s flank instead.

The powerful mount rambled past and Luthien had to let go of his reins and grab his sword hilt in both hands to avoid losing the weapon. He did hold on to the blade, and it did tear free of the passing ponypig, but Luthien got yanked from his horse in the process. He splashed down in the muddy field, struggling up in time to see Belsen’Krieg extracting himself from his downed mount.

“Now you die!” the cyclopian promised, stalking over without the slightest hesitation. The brutish general’s great sword slashed, then came in a rapid backhand, and Luthien barely got his weapon up to parry.

Belsen’Krieg pressed the attack with an overhand chop and a straight thrust; Luthien blocked and hopped aside at the last moment.

The cyclopian came on savagely, but Luthien was up to the task, letting Belsen’Krieg play out his rage, deflecting or dodging every attack. Every once in a while, the young Bedwyr found a slight opening and Blind-Striker penetrated Belsen’Krieg’s defenses, but the young Bedwyr had to be quick and retract the blade immediately, ready to block the next vicious attack.

Though Luthien saw the thin lines of blood on his adversary, he understood that he was really doing very little damage. He felt like a buzzing wasp biting at a giant, an impossible match. Luthien pushed down any ensuing panic, telling himself that the wasp could win.

But only if it was perfect.

It went on for some time, Luthien dodging and stinging, but Belsen’Krieg seemed to feel nothing, and his attacks did not slow with exhaustion. This one was good, Luthien realized, far better than any cyclopian he had ever faced. And strong! Luthien knew that if he missed a single parry, if this brute connected even once, he would be cleaved in half.

And then it happened; Luthien, circling, stepped on a patch of uneven ice and skidded down to one knee. Belsen’Krieg was on him immediately, the great sword chopping down.

Up came Blind-Striker, horizontally above Luthien’s head. Belsen’Krieg’s sword hit it near the hilt and was stopped, but Luthien’s arm buckled under the tremendous weight of the blow and he dropped his blade. He wasn’t seriously wounded, he believed, but the pain was intense.

He grabbed up Blind-Striker in his left hand and thrust ahead, trying to force the one-eyed monster back. He got Belsen’Krieg in the belly, but not enough to stop the brute.

Luthien scrambled to get his blade up, but was knocked forward suddenly, as someone, something, ran up his back.

Springing from Luthien’s shoulders, Oliver caught Belsen’Krieg by surprise. The cyclopian’s eye widened, a wonderful target, but Oliver, off balance as Luthien slid to the side, missed it, his rapier stabbing Belsen’Krieg’s cheek instead.

The cyclopian screamed and flailed his huge arms, falling back from the fight. He straightened out as Luthien and Oliver picked themselves up, standing side by side.

“You are a one-eyed, ugly thing,” Oliver taunted. “You would not know the value of friends!”

As if to accentuate the halfling’s point (and Oliver had timed things that way), a shining white stallion, long coat glistening with wetness, thundered right behind the cyclopian, slamming the huge brute across the shoulders and launching him headlong, face-first into the mud.

Belsen’Krieg came up sputtering to find himself surrounded by Luthien and Oliver, and now Katerin O’Hale, magnificent atop Riverdancer, her red hair darkened with wetness and snow gathering on her shoulders. Her smile was wide and bright, her green eyes sparkling more than the ice crystals forming at the ends of her thick hair, as she considered the situation, the victory that was won this day.

Belsen’Krieg looked about for support. He saw his last undercommander lurch over and slide slowly off a ponypig, its falling bulk revealing the victorious horseman behind it, sword red with blood. More than a dozen of Luthien’s cavalry remained, along with the few Katerin had brought with her, including one slight woman riding a yellow pony that had little hair in its tail.

Oliver grinned at the sight of his beloved Threadbare, but turned serious at once when he faced the cyclopian leader.

“I think you should surrender,” he remarked.

Belsen’Krieg looked around for a long while. Luthien could practically hear the creature’s thoughts—the caged animal looking for an escape. There was none to be found. Luthien wasn’t sure what Belsen’Krieg would do, which way the brute would turn, but then, unexpectedly, the one-eye threw his huge sword to the ground.

As one, the group relaxed, Luthien taking a stride toward the cyclopian leader. His sword arm still ached, but not so much that he could not take up Blind-Striker, flexing his muscles and grimacing through the pain.

Out came a knife, and daring, wild Belsen’Krieg charged ahead.

“Luthien!” Katerin and Oliver yelled together. Before the word had even left their mouths, Luthien’s free left hand whipped across, catching the cyclopian by the wrist. Luthien could hardly move Belsen’Krieg’s massive arm, but he used the support to shift himself instead, inside the angle of the rushing dagger. And as he moved, his own sword jabbed ahead, creasing Belsen’Krieg’s breastplate, cutting through the armor, into the brute’s lungs.

They held the macabre pose for a long moment, then Belsen’Krieg growled—and the mouths of those witnessing the event dropped open in disbelief—and began forcing his knife hand toward the young Bedwyr.

Luthien tucked his shoulder down against his sword hand and jerked at the blade, and Belsen’Krieg’s movement came to an abrupt halt. Again they held the pose, unblinking, their faces barely a few inches apart.

“One up,” Luthien growled, and the dying Belsen’Krieg had no response, for indeed the young Bedwyr had been one step ahead of him throughout the battle.

Luthien jerked his blade again, then felt it sinking down as Belsen’Krieg’s legs slowly buckled, bringing the brute to his knees. Luthien felt the strength go out of Belsen’Krieg’s massive arm; the knife dropped to the ground.

Luthien pulled Blind-Striker free, but even without the support, Belsen’Krieg fell no farther. The dead cyclopian leader knelt on the field.

Already the snow began to gather about him.