Luthien's Gamble

20 The Fields of Eradoch

To the casual observer, the northwestern corner of Eriador was not so different in appearance from the rest of the country. Rolling fields of thick green grass—“heavy turf,” the Eriadorans called it—stretched to the horizon in every direction, a soft green blanket, though on a clear day, the northern mountains could be seen back to the west, and even the tips of the Iron Cross, little white and gray dots, poked their heads above the green horizon far in the distance to the southwest.

There was something very different about the northeast, though, the Fields of Eradoch, the highlands. Here the wind was a bit more chill, the almost constant rain a bit more biting, and the men a bit more tough. The cattle that dotted the plain wore coats of shaggy, thick fur, and even the horses, Morgan Highlanders like Luthien’s own Riverdancer, had been bred with longer hair as a ward against the elements.

The highlands had not seen as much snow this winter as normal, though still more fell here than in the southern reaches of Eriador, and the snow cover was neither complete nor very deep by the time Luthien and Oliver crossed through MacDonald’s Swath and made their way into the region. Everything was gray and brown, with even a few splotches of green, as far as their eyes could see. Melancholy and dreary, winter’s corpse, with still some time before the rebirth of spring.

The companions camped about a dozen miles east of Bronegan that night, on the very edge of the Fields of Eradoch. When they awakened the next morning, they were greeted by unusually warm temperatures and a thick fog, as the last of the snow dissipated into the air.

“It will be slow this day,” Oliver remarked.

“Not so,” Luthien replied without the slightest hesitation. “There are few obstacles,” he explained.

“How far do you mean to go?” the halfling asked him. “They have left Caer MacDonald by now, you know.”

Oliver spoke the truth, Luthien realized. Likely, Brind’Amour and Katerin, Siobhan and all the army had already marched out of the city’s gates, flowing north and west, along the same course Luthien and Oliver had taken. Until they got to MacDonald’s Swath. There, they would cross and go to the south, into Glen Albyn, while Luthien and Oliver had turned straight north, across the breadth of the swath, to Bronegan, and now, beyond that and into Eradoch.

“How far?” Oliver asked again.

“All the way to Bae Colthwyn, if we must,” Luthien replied evenly.

Oliver knew the impracticality of that answer. They were fully three days of hard riding from the cold and dark waters of Bae Colthwyn. By the time they got there and back, Brind’Amour would be at the wall, and the battle would be over. But the halfling understood and sympathized with the emotions that had prompted that response from Luthien. They had been greeted warmly in Bronegan, with many pats on the back and many toasts of free ale. Yet the promises of alliance, from the folk of Bronegan and from several other nearby communities who sent emissaries to meet with Luthien, had been tentative at best. The only way that these folk of the middle lands would line up behind the Crimson Shadow, in open defiance of King Greensparrow, was if Luthien proved to them that the whole of Eriador would fight in this war. Luthien had to go back through Bronegan on his journey south, or at least send an emissary there, and if he and Oliver had not mustered any more support, then they would ride alone all the way back to Glen Albyn.

And so they were in the highlands, to face perhaps their most critical test of the unity of Eriador. The highlanders of Eradoch were an independent group, tough and hardy. Many would call them uncivilized. They lived in tribes, clans based on heritage, and often warred amongst themselves. They were hunters, not farmers, better with the sword than the plow, for strength was the byword of the Fields of Eradoch.

That fact was not lost on the young Bedwyr, the general who had engineered the defeat of Belsen’Krieg outside of Caer MacDonald. All the highlanders, even the children, could ride, and ride well, on their powerful and shaggy steeds, and if Luthien could enlist a fraction of the thousands who roamed these fields, he would have a cavalry to outmatch the finest of Greensparrow’s Praetorian Guards. But the highlanders were a superstitious and unpredictable lot. Likely they had heard of Luthien as the Crimson Shadow, and so he and Oliver would not be riding into Eradoch unannounced. Their reception, good or bad, had probably already been decided.

The pair rode on through most of that day, Luthien trying to keep them headed northeast, toward Mennichen Dee, the one village in all the region. It was a trading town, a gathering point, and many of the highland clans would soon be making their way to the place, with excess horses and piles of furs to swap for salt and spices and glittering gemstones brought in by merchants of the other regions.

The fog didn’t lift all that day, and though the pair tried to keep their spirits high, the soggy air and the unremarkable ground (what little of it they could see) made it a long and arduous day.

“We should camp soon,” Luthien remarked, the first words either of them had spoken in some hours.

“Pity us in trying to build a fire this night,” Oliver lamented, and Luthien had no words to counter that. It would indeed be a cold and uncomfortable night, for they’d not begin a fire with the meager and soaked twigs that they might find in the highlands.

“We’ll make Mennichen Dee tomorrow,” Luthien promised. “There is always shelter available there to any traveler who comes in peace.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub,” the halfling said dramatically. “For do we come in peace?”

The ride seemed longer to Luthien, who again had no real answers for his unusually gloomy friend.

They traveled on as the sun, showing as just a lighter patch of gray, settled into the sky behind them, and very soon, Luthien felt that subtle tingle of alarm, that warrior instinct. Something just beyond his conscious senses told him to be on guard, and the adrenaline began to course through his veins.

He looked to Oliver and saw that his halfling companion, too, was riding a bit more tensely in the saddle, ready to spring away or draw his blade.

Riverdancer’s ears flattened and then came back up several times; Threadbare snorted.

They came like ghosts through the fog, gliding over the soft grass with hardly a sound, their bodies so wrapped in layers of fur and hide, and with huge horned or winged helms upon their heads, that they seemed hardly human, seemed extensions of the shaggy horses they rode, seemed the stuff of nightmares.

Both companions pulled up short, neither going for his weapon, transfixed by the spectacle of this ghostly ambush. The highlanders, huge men, every one of them dwarfing even Luthien, came in from every angle, slowly tightening the ring about the pair.

“Tell me I am dreaming,” Oliver whispered.

Luthien shook his head.

“Sometimes, perhaps, you should do only as you are told.” Oliver scolded. “Even if it is a lie!”

The highlanders stopped just far enough from the pair so that they remained indistinguishable, seeming more like monsters than men. Oliver silently applauded their tactic—they knew the ground, they knew the fog, and they certainly knew how to make an appearance.

“They want us to move first,” Luthien whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“I could fall on the ground and tremble,” the halfling offered sarcastically.

“They kill cowards,” Luthien said.

Oliver considered the honest emotions flitting through his mind at the ominous presence sitting barely a dozen yards away. “Then I am doomed,” he admitted.

Luthien snickered despite the predicament. “We knew what we were riding into,” he said at length, to remind himself and bolster his resolve.

“Greetings from Caer MacDonald,” he called in as strong a voice as he could muster. “The city that was unrightfully placed under the name of Montfort by a man who would claim kingship of all Avon and all Eriador.”

For a long while, there came no response. Then one rider moved up through the passive line, walking his black horse past the others and close enough for Luthien and Oliver to see him clearly.

The young Bedwyr’s face screwed up with curiosity, for this one appeared to be no highlander. He was large, yet he wore no furs or hide, but rather a complete suit of black-plated armor, the likes of which Luthien Bedwyr had never before seen. It was creased and jointed, with metal gauntlets fastened securely into place. Even the man’s feet were armored! His helm was flat-topped and cylindrical—Luthien noted that there were two eye slits and not one; this was no cyclopian—and he carried a huge shield, black like his armor and emblazoned with a crest that Luthien did not know: a death figure, skeletal arms spread wide, an upturned sword in one hand, a downward-pointing sword in the other. A pennant with a similar crest flew from the top of the long lance he held easily at his side. Even the man’s horse was covered in armor—head and neck and chest and flanks.

“Montfort,” the man declared in a deep voice. “Rightfully named by the rightful king.”

“Uh-oh,” Oliver moaned.

“You are not of the highlands,” Luthien reasoned.

The armored man shifted on his horse, the beast prancing nervously. Luthien understood that his words had somewhat unnerved the man, for his guess had been on the mark. The man was not of Eradoch, and that meant whatever hold he had over the highlanders would be tenuous indeed. He had come to some measure of power and influence by sheer strength, probably defeating several of the greatest warriors of Eradoch. Anyone who could best him would likely inherit his position, and so Luthien already had his sights set on the man.

But with the man’s imposing size and all that armor, the young Bedwyr was not so fond of that possibility.

“Who are you, then, you who tinkles in a hard spring rain?” Oliver asked.

“A hard spring rain?” Luthien whispered incredulously to the halfling.

“Tinkle, tinkle,” Oliver whispered back.

The armored man squared his shoulders and brought himself up to his full height. “I am the Dark Knight!” he declared.

The companions thought on that one for a moment.

“But you would have to be,” Oliver reasoned.

“You have heard of me?”

“No.”

The Dark Knight grunted in confusion.

“You would have to be,” Oliver reiterated. “Is that not why it is called night?”

“What?” the exasperated man asked.

“Unless there is a moon,” Luthien offered.

Oliver smirked, pleasantly surprised. “You are getting very good at this,” he offered to his friend.

“What?” the knight demanded.

Oliver sighed and shook his head. “So silly tinkler,” he said. “If you were not dark, you would be the day.”

They couldn’t see the man’s face under the metal helm, but they both imagined his jaw drooping open. “Huh?” he grunted.

The two friends looked to each and exchanged helpless shrugs. “Peasant,” they said in unison.

“I am the Dark Knight!” the armored man declared.

“Charge straight in?” Luthien offered.

“Of course,” Oliver replied, and they both whooped, Luthien drawing Blind-Striker and kicking Riverdancer into a great leaping start. Threadbare didn’t follow, though, Oliver sitting passively.

Luthien knew that he was in trouble as soon as the knight’s lance dipped his way, as soon as he realized that the long weapon would slip past his guard, and probably through his chest, before he ever got close enough to nick his opponent’s horse on the tip of its nose. He brought his sword arm down and grabbed up Riverdancer’s bridle in both hands—only riding skills, not fighting skills, could save him now.

Luthien waited until the last possible second, then cut Riverdancer to the left, angling away from the knight, and the strong and agile steed responded, cutting hard, clumps of turf flying from its hooves. The knight apparently expected the move, though, for he, too, shifted, turning his lance enough to nick Luthien across the shoulder, a painful sting. The young Bedwyr grimaced and whipped his hands across the other way, yanking hard on Riverdancer’s reins.

Again, the mighty horse responded, digging hooves deep into the sod. Luthien started to bring Blind-Striker up, but felt a twang in his right shoulder. Quick-thinking and quick-moving, the young Bedwyr caught up the sword in his left hand instead, and lashed out, striking hard along the center of the lance. Then he shifted his angle and swiped a vicious backhand that slammed the edge of the blade against the knight’s breastplate.

The sword bounced harmlessly away.

The two riders pounded away from each other, the knight discarding his snapped lance and Luthien straightening in the saddle, taking up his sword in his right hand again and testing its grip. He noted the approving looks of the highlanders as he turned Riverdancer about, just short of their ranks. It was going well so far, the young Bedwyr realized, for they admired his courage, and probably they admired his horse. Riverdancer was much shorter than the Dark Knight’s steed, but wider and stronger. And Riverdancer was a Highland Morgan, as fine a steed as had ever been bred on the Fields of Eradoch. Gahris Bedwyr had paid a small fortune for the shining white mount, and in studying the approving nods now coming his way, Luthien realized that the horse had been worth every gold coin.

The opponents squared off once more. The Dark Knight reached for his sword, and had it half out of its scabbard, but then a sour look crossed his face. He regarded the sword for a moment, then slid the weapon away, taking up a flail instead. He lifted it above his head, swinging it effortlessly, the spiked iron ball spinning lazily on its heavy black chain. Better than the lance, Luthien thought, for at least he would be close enough to strike before he got struck this time.

Luthien sighed and wondered what good that might do. He had hit his opponent hard the first time, a blow that should have felled the man. Yet the Dark Knight hadn’t even grunted at the impact, and if he was feeling any pain now, he wasn’t showing it.

On came the man, and Luthien shrugged and dug his heels into Riverdancer’s powerful flanks. They passed close this time, close enough for Luthien to feel the puff of steam from the nostrils of the Dark Knight’s towering steed.

Luthien snapped off a short backhand, catching the knight under the arm as he lifted his spinning flail for a swing. Up went Blind-Striker in a quick parry, just deflecting the iron ball before it crunched Luthien’s skull.

This time, Luthien didn’t allow the pass. He knew that he had the advantage in mounts here, and so he turned Riverdancer tightly, coming around behind the Dark Knight’s steed. In a moment, he was pacing his opponent once more, and he got in three hard strikes with his sword before the armored man could turn about to retaliate. They ran the line together, side by side, hammering at each other. Luthien’s hits were mostly clean, while Blind-Striker took the momentum from the flail each and every time. Still, the heavy ball battered the young Bedwyr, and Luthien’s sword seemed to have little effect as it rebounded off the other’s heavy plating.

Finally, each of them breathing heavily, the opponents broke apart, Luthien cutting Riverdancer fast to the side. He could not win this way, he knew, for the mounted battle was too frenzied for him to find a crease in the knight’s armor. The Dark Knight apparently knew it, too, for he swung his mount about, aiming for Luthien.

“Pass!” he demanded, and on came the thundering charge once more.

Luthien bent low and whispered into Riverdancer’s ear. “I need you now,” he said to the horse. “Be strong and forgive me.” Off they charged, kicking up the sod, angling for another close pass.

Luthien hunched his shoulders close to Riverdancer’s strong neck and turned his mount right into the path of the charging opponent. The Dark Knight straightened in surprise, his horse breaking stride.

Exactly what Luthien had prayed for.

The young Bedwyr did not slow at all. Riverdancer plowed headlong into the Dark Knight’s steed, bowling the horse over so that it practically sat on the ground before it was able to regain any semblance of balance. The armored knight held on dearly, accepting the hit as Luthien thrust Blind-Striker around the tumbling horse’s neck.

Luthien, knocked dizzy from the impact of the powerful steeds, held on dearly as well. He focused squarely on his target, had known what he needed to do before he had ever begun the charge. His one attack, the sword thrust, was not for the knight’s breastplate—what would be the point?—or even for the slits in the man’s helmet, which were out of reach as the knight leaned defensively backward. Luthien swung at the man’s fingers, so that he dropped the reins. As the staggering Riverdancer shuffled to the side, Luthien looped those reins about his sword and tugged with all his strength, and the knight’s horse lurched violently.

Luthien nearly overbalanced and tumbled off the other side of his horse, but held on stubbornly, looking back just in time to see the Dark Knight unceremoniously slide off the rear flank of his mount, thudding hard to the ground.

Luthien slipped off Riverdancer and nearly fell facedown as the world continued to spin about him. He staggered and stumbled his way to his supine opponent, the man trying futilely to rise in his heavy armor. The flail whipped across, catching the young Bedwyr off balance.

Luthien’s eyes widened in surprise and he hurled himself backward, slipping in the mud to fall unceremoniously to the ground.

The knight rolled and managed to get up as Luthien rose, the two facing off.

“Your attack was immoral,” the Dark Knight declared. “You struck my horse!”

“My horse struck your horse,” Luthien corrected indignantly.

“There are rules of combat!”

“There are rules of survival!” Luthien countered. “How am I to fight one armored such as yourself? What risks do you take?”

“That is the advantage of station,” the Dark Knight roared. “Come on, then, sans equine.”

Sitting not far away, Oliver cocked his head curiously at the armored man’s demeanor. That last statement was a Gascon saying, reserved for nobles mostly, meaning competition, not always combat, without horses. Who was this knight? Oliver wondered.

Luthien approached cautiously. He could hit the man a dozen times to little effect, but one swipe of the flail would cave in his skull, or reduce his ribs to little bits. And his right arm was hanging loose, still feeling the sting from the lance cut. The two circled and launched measured strikes for a few passes, then the Dark Knight roared and came in hard, whipping his flail across and back.

The man couldn’t move so well in that encumbering armor, though, and Luthien easily danced aside, swatting the knight on the back of the shoulder. The knight turned and tried to follow, but the agile Luthien was always a step ahead of him, tap-tapping with Blind-Striker, as much to prod the man on as to inflict any real damage. Already the young Bedwyr could hear the man panting inside that heavy suit.

“An honorable man would stand and fight!” the Dark Knight proclaimed.

“A stupid man would stand and die,” Luthien countered. “You speak of honor, yet you hide behind a wall of metal! You see my face, yet I see no more than dark orbs through the slits of a helm!”

That gave the man pause, for he stopped abruptly and lowered his flail. “A point well taken,” he said, and to Luthien’s amazement, he began to unstrap his heavy helmet. He pulled it off and Luthien grew even more amazed, for the man was much older than Luthien had expected, probably three times the young Bedwyr’s age! His face was rugged and wide, skin leathery and creased by deep lines. His gray hair was cropped short, but he wore a huge mustache, also gray, a line of bushy hair from mid-cheek to mid-cheek. His eyes, dark brown, were large and wide-spaced, with a thick nose between, and only his chin was narrow, jutting forward proudly.

The Dark Knight tossed his helmet to the ground. “Now,” he said, “fight me fairly, young upstart.”

He charged once more, and this time, Luthien met the rush, Blind-Striker whipping across, its angle and timing perfect to intercept the flail across the chain, halfway between the ball and the handle. The ball wrapped tightly around Luthien’s sword. He tugged hard, thinking to take the weapon from the man, but the Dark Knight proved incredibly strong, and though Luthien had the advantage of angle, the older man held on.

Luthien felt the throb in his shoulder, but forgot about it as the Dark Knight’s armored left hand came across in a vicious hook, slamming Luthien right in the face. Warm blood rolled down from Luthien’s nose and over his lip, tasting salty-sweet.

The young Bedwyr staggered back a step, then wisely threw himself forward before the man could land a second weighted punch. The Dark Knight did snap his knee up, and while Luthien was wise enough to turn one leg in to protect his groin, he took the hit on the thigh.

Luthien responded by jamming his open palm up under the Dark Knight’s chin, breaking the clench. The young Bedwyr leaped back, tugging and scrambling frantically, pulling hard on the knot the flail’s chain had become.

He got punched again, in the chest, then again, right on his wounded shoulder. He reacted in kind and grimaced at the sudden throbbing in his hand after banging it hard off the Dark Knight’s unyielding breastplate.

A left hook crashed in just under Luthien’s ribs. He ran to the side, throwing his momentum into the tangle of weapons, trying to change the angle, or to push the flail handle back over the older man’s hand, forcing him to let go.

Finally, Blind-Striker slid free of its tangle, so quickly that Luthien skidded right past his opponent and stumbled down to one knee. The Dark Knight turned to follow, whipped the flail in a circular motion over his head. His thought was to seize the moment and attack immediately, but Blind-Striker’s blade was much finer and stronger than the Dark Knight had anticipated, and the flail was an old weapon, as old as its wielder. The iron chain, weakened by age and by the finest blade in all of Eriador, split at one link and the studded ball flew through the air.

Across the way, Threadbare hopped to Oliver’s command, and the halfling deftly lifted his hands, protected by his fine green gauntlets, to basket-catch the object.

The Dark Knight, apparently oblivious to the loss of his weapon, roared and rushed ahead, waving the handle and half a chain. He slowed only upon noticing Luthien’s suddenly amused expression.

“Excuse me, good sir knight,” came the halfling’s call from behind. The Dark Knight turned slowly, to see Oliver dangling the lost flail ball by the end of its broken chain. The knight looked from Oliver to his weapon, his face screwed up with disbelief. Then he saw the horizon suddenly, and then the gray sky, as Luthien kicked his legs out from under him.

The young Bedwyr was atop him, straddling his breastplate, the tip of Blind-Striker at the man’s throat.

“I beg of you,” the Dark Knight began, and Luthien thought it out of character for this one to whine. “Please, good sir, allow me to offer a final prayer to God before you kill me,” the Dark Knight explained. “You have won fairly—I offer no protests, but I ask that I might make my final peace.”

Luthien didn’t know how to react, so surprised to hear such talk from one of Greensparrow’s professed followers. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Of course, of course, my name,” the Dark Knight said. “And I, of course, must know yours before you kill . . .” The man sighed and let that thought go.

“I am Estabrooke of Newcastle,” he declared. “Lord Protector, First of the Sixth Cavaliers.”

Luthien looked over at Oliver, his lips silently mouthing, “First of the Sixth?” The young Bedwyr had heard of the group before, a band of knights dedicated as personal bodyguards of the king of Avon and of the governors of the six major cities in that southern kingdom. Luthien had thought the group disbanded with the arrival of Greensparrow, for the cyclopians now served as Praetorian Guard. Apparently, he thought wrong.

Luthien paused, understanding that he had to consider this matter very carefully. He lifted Blind-Striker away from the knight’s throat and wiped the blood from his face, all the while staring at the curious old man lying supine below him.

“You are a long way from Newcastle,” Luthien said.

The man straightened himself, seemed to regain a bit of his dignity despite his predicament. “I am on a mission,” he declared. “The first for a cavalier since . . .” His face screwed up as he tried to remember. It had indeed been a long time.

“Well, no matter,” Estabrooke said at length. “I have prayed. You may state your name and kill me now.” He took a deep breath and locked his dark brown eyes on Luthien’s cinnamon-colored orbs. “Have at it,” he said matter-of-factly.

Luthien looked all around. Of course he would not kill this man, but he wanted to figure out how his action, or inaction, might be viewed by the rugged highlanders ringing him.

“I never heard the claim of a challenge to the death,” Luthien said, stepping aside and extending his hand. The Dark Knight looked at him skeptically for a moment, then accepted the grasp, and Luthien helped him to his feet.

“I will see to our horses,” Estabrooke offered, walking away as he noticed Oliver’s approach.

Luthien saw the halfling, too, and with the blood still running from his bent nose, he wasn’t very pleased. “You said that you would charge right in,” the young Bedwyr scolded.

“I never said that,” Oliver corrected.

“You implied it!” Luthien growled.

Oliver blew a deep breath and shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

Their conversation came to an abrupt end a moment later when the ring of mounted highlanders suddenly converged, huge horsemen and wicked weapons, two-headed spears and axes with blades the size of a large man’s chest, pinning the pair helplessly together.

Luthien cleared his throat. “Good sir Estabrooke,” he began. “Might you talk to your . . . friends?”