Luthien's Gamble

26 The Demon and the Paladin

Luthien’s first instincts were to go to Katerin, but he kept his wits about him enough to realize that the only chance he and Katerin had was to be rid of the wizard quickly, and hopefully the wizard’s demon along with the man. The young Bedwyr took one running step toward the bed, then cut sharply to the right, cocking back Blind-Striker with both hands.

The wizard jumped up and shrieked, throwing his skinny arms in front of him in a feeble attempt at defense. Luthien cried out for victory and brought the sword in a vicious arc, just under the flailing arms, and the young man snarled grimly as the sword struck against the wizard’s side, boring right across. He saw the wizard’s robes, brownish-yellow in hue, fitting for the sickly looking man, fold under the weight of the blow, saw them follow the blade’s path.

Blind-Striker had moved all the way around, left to right, and the robes with it, before Luthien realized that Paragor was not there, that the wizard somehow was no longer in these robes. The young Bedwyr stumbled forward a step, overbalancing as his sword found nothing substantial to hit. He caught himself and wheeled about, the brownish-yellow robes folded over his blade.

He saw a shimmer across the room against the wall beyond the foot of the bed, as Paragor came back to corporeal form, wearing robes identical to the ones wrapped over Luthien’s sword. He saw Praehotec, eyes blazing, rage focused squarely on Luthien, coming over the bed, rushing right past Katerin and barreling over one of the cyclopians as he went, the fiend’s great wings buffeting both Katerin and the other one-eyed guard.

Luthien knew that he was dead.

Like his companion, Oliver thought the key to this fight would be in slaying the wizard. And like his companion, Oliver came to understand that getting to Paragor would not be easy. At first, the halfling started right, following Luthien. Then, seeing that Luthien would get the attack in, Oliver had cut back toward the middle of the room, toward Katerin. The halfling’s eyes bulged when he realized Paragor’s magical escape, and how they bulged more when Oliver saw Praehotec, gigantic and horrid Praehotec, coming over the bed!

With a squeak, Oliver dove down, crossing under the tumbling cyclopian and slipping under the bed as the demon charged out. The agile halfling recovered quickly, in a roll that turned his prone body about, and he scrambled right back out the way he had come in so that he could stab at the downed one-eye with his rapier. He scored a hit, then a second and a third, but the stubborn brute was up to its knees, bellowing like an animal, turning around to face the halfling.

Oliver stuck it once again as it turned, and then the halfling let out a second squeak and faded back under the bed, the enraged cyclopian in close pursuit.

From the very beginning, Katerin had not been a model prisoner, and she kept up her reputation now. She accepted the hit as Praehotec passed, the demon’s wing knocking her flat to the bed and blasting her breath away. Her instincts yelled for her to go to Luthien, to die beside him, for she knew that he could not defeat this monstrous beast. But her wits told her to inflict as much pain on wretched Paragor as she could, and so as she went flying downward, she tensed her muscles and threw herself into the fall, hitting the cushioned bed with enough force to bounce right back to a sitting position. The second cyclopian, half on the bed and half off, dazed by the weight of Praehotec’s wing, was more concerned with its companion, who was scrambling under the bed, than with Katerin.

The brute felt her arms come across its broad shoulders, the chain binding her wrists scraping its face as her wrists came down in front of its burly neck. In a split second, the cyclopian felt Katerin’s feet against its upper back, and she was pushing and tugging with all of her strength, her chained wrists tight across the one-eye’s throat.

The dominant thought in Paragor’s mind as he easily vanished from in front of Luthien’s mighty swing was that he had erred in keeping Praehotec so long. Before he ever came back to his corporeal form, the wizard knew that the demon would be going after Luthien, meaning to kill the young man and tear him apart, to punish the young Bedwyr, this legendary Crimson Shadow, for its defeat on the high tower of the Ministry.

Thowattle’s warnings of turning the young man into a martyr echoed in Paragor’s mind, and so his first attack, a beam of searing, crackling, white energy, was aimed not at Luthien, nor any of his companions, but at Praehotec.

The demon was close enough to Luthien by then that the wizard’s attack appeared to be an errant casting. The white bolt slammed Praehotec’s leathery wing, doing no real damage to the beast, but stopping its charge, slamming the monster against the far wall.

Luthien, fighting hard to curb his terror, lunged forward, thrusting Blind-Striker with all his strength. The mighty sword had been forged by the dwarves of the Iron Cross in ages past, its blade of beaten metal folded a thousand times. Now, after centuries of use, it was better than when it was forged, for as the blade wore down, each layer was harder than the previous. It sank deep into demon flesh. Luthien ignored the hot, greenish gore that erupted from Praehotec’s torn torso and pushed on, throwing all his weight behind the attack. Blind-Striker went in right up to its jewelled and golden hilt—the sculpted dragon rampant. The sharpened points of the sculpture’s upraised wings, the formidable cross-piece of the weapon, gouged small holes in the demon’s flesh.

Luthien, snarling and screaming, looked up into the demon’s fiery eyes, thinking he had won, thinking that no beast, not even a monster of the Abyss, could withstand such a strike.

Praehotec seemed in agony, green gore oozing from the wound, but gradually a wicked grin widened across the monster’s serpentine face. A trembling, clawed hand reached out to Luthien, who backed off to arm’s length only, not daring to withdraw the blade. A long, low growl came from the pained demon’s maw; Praehotec’s trembling, weakened hand caught Luthien by the front of his tunic and pushed him, the twelve-foot giant extending its long arm, driving Luthien back step by step, and since the young Bedwyr didn’t dare let go of Blind-Striker, the sword followed, sliding from the wound.

When Praehotec’s arm was fully extended, Blind-Striker was only a few inches deep in the monster’s chest. Luthien yanked it all the way out and snapped it straight up, nicking the bottom of Praehotec’s jaw. Before he could do any more harm, though, the demon clenched its hand tighter and yanked its arm out to the side, hurling Luthien back by the door.

The young Bedwyr came up in a roll to see Paragor casting straight at him. Through the open door Luthien dove, pulling it closed behind him.

The door slammed all the faster when Paragor’s blast of lightning hit it, splitting the wood right down the middle so that splinters followed Luthien out into the hall. Luthien was up again in an instant, meaning to charge right back in, but he had to dive aside as the door exploded and Praehotec burst through.

Luthien skittered behind the beast, back in front of the door. He saw Katerin on the bed, tugging for all her life, the cyclopian gasping and clawing at her hands and wrists. He saw the second brute, dodging futilely side to side as it tried to squirm under the bed, as Oliver’s darting rapier poked it again and again.

“Get out!” Luthien cried to Oliver and he pulled the amber gemstone from his pouch and sent it skidding under the bed, hoping the halfling would see it and find the chance to take Katerin along with him if that stone was indeed an escape.

Paragor was approaching, dark eyes focused right on Luthien, as though nothing or no one else mattered in all the world. The duke’s hair flared in wild wings behind his ears, and he seemed inhuman, as monstrous as the beast Praehotec.

Luthien accepted that he was overmatched, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that Katerin and Oliver might escape, and so the young Bedwyr spun about, snarling with fury and slashed Blind-Striker across Praehotec’s back, right between the wings.

The demon howled and whipped around, clawed hand raking. But Luthien was already gone, rolling to the side, and Praehotec’s great hand caught nothing but the door jamb and remaining pieces of the door, launching a volley of splinters right into Paragor’s face.

“Fool!” the duke yelled, hands going to his bloody face. “Do not kill him!”

Even as Paragor yelled his instructions, Blind-Striker came in again, a crushing blow to the side of the crouching demon’s head. Praehotec let out a wail, and no commands the wizard-duke could utter then, no reasoning, would have contained the fiend’s fury. Praehotec wheeled wildly, filling the corridor with its huge form, preventing Luthien from skipping behind this time.

They faced off, the demon still in a crouch, its wings tight to its back so they would not scrape against the walls. The corridor was small and rather narrow, had been built for defense, and its ceiling was not high enough to accommodate the tall fiend. Praehotec was at no disadvantage, though; it could fight this way easily enough.

Luthien, too, went into a crouch, backing down the hall as the demon stalked him. Clawed hands came at him, and all the young Bedwyr could do was whip his sword back and forth, parrying. Luthien nearly tripped over one of the dead cyclopians, and knew that if he had, his life would have come to a sudden and violent end.

Regaining his footing and looking up at his foe, Luthien watched in blank amazement as two dagger-length beams of red light emanated from Praehotec’s blazing eyes. The serpentine maw turned up into another of those awful grins as the demon crossed its eyes to angle the beams. As soon as the light beams touched, a third beam burst forth, a red line that hit Luthien square in the chest, hurling him backward.

He fought for his breath, felt the burn, the spot of sheer agony, and saw the grinning beast still approaching. He tried to backpedal, all his sensibilities told him to flee, but the door held firm behind him, and it could only open one way, into the corridor.

Had Luthien been thinking clearly, he might have stepped aside and thrown it wide, then run out into the palace proper. But he could not stop and reason, not with the pain and with Praehotec so close, great arms reaching for him. And then his chance was lost altogether as Praehotec worked more magic, swelling and twisting the door in its jamb so that it would not open at all.

“Will you fall down and die, you ugly offspring of a flounder and a pig?” Oliver shouted, poking the cyclopian yet again. He had pierced the creature twenty times, at least. Its face, its chest, and both its reaching hands spotted bright lines of blood. But the brute didn’t cry out, didn’t complain at all, and didn’t retreat.

Something skittered beside Oliver and he heard Luthien call out for him to escape. Without even knowing what it might be, the halfling instinctively scooped up the bauble. Then he changed tactics. He poked at the cyclopian again, but fell back as he did so, allowing the brute to get further under the bed. When it had squeezed in all the way, Oliver, much smaller and more maneuverable in the tight quarters, poked it hard in the forehead, then scampered out the other side, coming to his feet to find Katerin still tugging with all her strength, though the strangled brute was no longer fighting back.

“I think you can stop now,” the halfling remarked dryly, bringing Katerin from her apparent trance. “But if you really want to fight,” Oliver continued, dancing away from the bed as the crawling cyclopian swiped at him, “just wait a moment.”

Oliver danced away; Katerin stood up. She looked at the door, and so did the halfling, watching Paragor’s back, the wizard apparently picking at his face, as he exited the room.

Then Katerin’s attention was back to the immediate problem: the cyclopian reemerging from under the bed. She crouched and waited, and as the brute stood up, she called to it. As soon as it turned, Katerin leaped and tumbled, hooking her chained wrists under the one-eye’s chin and rolling right over the brute’s shoulder.

She came around and down hard to her knees on the floor, tugging the cyclopian viciously behind her, bending back its back and neck. She hadn’t planned the move, but thought it incredibly clever and deadly indeed, but the cyclopian was stronger than she realized, and she was not heavy. The brute’s bloody hands reached back over its shoulders and clasped Katerin by the elbows, then tugged so hard that the sturdy woman gave out a scream.

Oliver, busy examining the amber gem, casually strolled right in front of the engaged one-eye. The brute, straining to look back at Katerin, didn’t even notice him.

“Ahem,” the halfling offered, tapping his rapier on top of the brute’s head.

The cyclopian visibly relaxed its hold on Katerin and slowly turned to face front, to stare into the tip of Oliver’s rapier.

“This is going to hurt,” Oliver promised, and his blade darted forward.

The brute let go and grabbed wildly, trying to intercept, but the halfling was too quick and the rapier tip drove into the cyclopian’s eye.

Oliver walked away, examining the stone once more, trying to recall all that Siobhan had said when she had given it to Luthien. Katerin, her arms free once more, for the blinded brute was wailing and thrashing aimlessly, turned herself over to face the creature’s back, twisting the chains tight about its neck.

Had the powerful cyclopian grabbed her again, it might have been strong enough to break the strangling hold, but the one-eye was beyond reason, insane with pain. It thrashed and jerked, rolled to one side and then the other. Katerin paced it, her bindings doing their deadly work.

Oliver wasn’t watching. He moved to the bottom of the bed and hurled the amber gemstone at the wall, calling three times for Brind’Amour. It shattered when it hit, but before a single piece of it could fall to the floor, it became something insubstantial, began to swirl as a fog, becoming part of the wall, transforming the wall.

Oliver recognized the magical tunnel and understood that he and Katerin could get away. “Ah, my Brind’Amour,” the halfling lamented, and then he looked from the potential escape route to the shattered door. None of the three, not Luthien, the demon, or the wizard, was in sight.

“I hate being a friend,” the halfling whispered, and started toward the door.

Before he had gone three steps, though, two forms came rushing through the amber fog into the room. Oliver’s jaw drooped open; Katerin, finishing her latest foe, dared to hope.

Brind’Amour and Estabrooke.

The parries came furiously and in rapid succession, Blind-Striker whipping back and forth, left and right, always intercepting a hand just before it raked at Luthien—or just after, before the demon could gain a firm hold or sink its terrible claws in too deep. Luthien couldn’t keep it up; he knew that, and knew, too, there was no way for him to launch any effective counter measures.

Beams of red light began to extend from Praehotec’s blazing eyes.

Luthien screamed, put one leg against the door and hurled himself at the beast, rushing in between the extended, grasping arms. He came in high, but dropped low as Praehotec crossed its eyes, the beams joining and sending forth another jarring bolt that flashed over Luthien’s head and slammed into the door, blasting a fair-sized crack.

Luthien stabbed straight out, scoring a hit on Praehotec’s belly. Then he slashed to his right, gouging the demon’s great wing, and followed the blade, rolling around the beast, trying to go between Praehotec and the wall and get into the larger area of the corridor.

Praehotec turned, and though the giant couldn’t keep up with Luthien’s scrambling, the beast did swing a leg fast enough, lifting a knee into Luthien’s side and slamming him painfully against the corridor wall.

Luthien bounced out the other side, still scrambling on all fours, scraping his knuckles and gasping for breath, trying to make it back to the door of the wizard’s room, though he didn’t even have his head up, so bad was the pain.

He saw the hem of the wizard’s brownish-yellow robes, a sickly color for a sickly man.

Luthien forced himself to his knees, threw his back against the wall, and squirmed his way up to a standing position. Before he ever fully straightened, before he ever truly looked Paragor in the eye, he heard the crackle of energy.

Blue lines of power arced between Paragor’s fingers, and when he thrust his hands toward Luthien, those lines extended, engulfing the man in a jolting, crackling shroud.

Luthien jerked spasmodically. He felt his hair standing on end, and his jaw chattered and convulsed so violently that he bit his tongue repeatedly, filling his mouth with blood. He tried to look at his adversary, tried to will himself toward the wizard, but his muscles would not react to his call. The spasms continued; Luthien slammed the back of his head against the wall so violently that he had to struggle to remain conscious.

He hardly registered the movement as Praehotec finally turned and advanced, a clawed hand reaching for his head.

With a roar of victory, the beast grabbed for its prey, meaning to squash Luthien’s skull. But the energy encircling the young Bedwyr sparked on contact and blew the demon’s hand aside. Praehotec looked at Paragor, serpentine face twisted with rage.

“You cannot kill this one!” the duke insisted. “He is mine. Go to his lover instead and take her as you will!”

Luthien heard. Above all the crackling and the pain, the sound of his own bones and ligaments popping as he jerked about, he heard. Paragor had sent Praehotec to Katerin. He had given the demon permission to kill Katerin . . . or worse.

“No,” Luthien growled, forcing the word from his mouth. He straightened, using the wall for support, and somehow, through sheer willpower, he managed to steady himself enough to look the evil duke in the eye.

Both Paragor and Praehotec stared at the young Bedwyr with a fair amount of respect, and so it was Luthien, gazing over the duke’s shoulder, who noticed the blue-robed wizard at the open doorway to the duke’s bedchamber.

Brind’Amour’s hands moved in circles as he uttered a chant. He took a deep, deep breath and brought his hands back behind his ears, then threw them forward, at the same time blowing with all his might.

Luthien got the strange image of the wizard as a boy, blowing out the candles upon his birthday cake.

There came an explosion of light, and a great and sudden burst of wind that flattened Luthien against the wall at the same time as it blew out the arcing energy emanating from Paragor’s hands, freeing the trapped young Bedwyr.

Paragor stumbled, then turned about, glaring at this new adversary, recognizing him as the old man he had seen in the divining basin. Now, with the display of power from the man, Paragor pieced things together.

“You,” he snarled accusingly, and Brind’Amour knew that the wizard-duke, who knew the stories of the ancient brotherhood and had no doubt been warned of Brind’Amour by Greensparrow, at last saw him for who he really was. With a primal scream, Paragor lifted his hands, and they glowed that sickly brownish-yellow color. The wizard-duke charged, his hands going for the old man’s throat.

By the time Luthien gained enough of his senses to look up, he was lying on the floor, a sheet of golden light suspended in the air above him. He saw the giant, shadowy form of Praehotec through that veil, saw the demon’s huge foot rise up above him.

Luthien closed his eyes, tried to grab his sword, but could not reach it in time, and screamed out, thinking he was about to be crushed.

But then it was Praehotec who was screaming, terrible, awful wails of agony, for as the demon’s foot entered the sheet of golden light, it was consumed, torn and ripped away.

Brind’Amour’s hands, glowing a fierce blue to match his own robes, came up to meet the duke’s charge. He caught Paragor’s hands in his own and could feel the disease emanating from them, a withering, rotting touch. Brind’Amour countered the only way he knew how, by reciting chants of healing, chants of ice that would paralyze Paragor’s invisible flies of sickness.

Paragor twisted and growled, pressing on with all his might. And Brind’Amour matched him, twisted and turned in accord with each of the duke’s movements. Then Paragor yanked one hand away suddenly, breaking the hold, and slapped at Brind’Amour’s face.

The old wizard intercepted with a blocking arm, accepting the slap, and his forearm, where his unprotected skin was touched by the evil duke, wrinkled and withered, pulling apart into an open sore. Brind’Amour responded by slamming his own palm into Paragor’s nose, and where the blue touched Paragor’s skin, it left an icy, crystalline whiteness, the duke’s nose and one cheek freezing solid.

Gulping for breath, the evil duke grabbed Brind’Amour’s hand with his own and the struggle continued. Paragor tried to pull Brind’Amour to the side, but to the duke’s surprise, the old wizard accepted the tug, even threw his own weight behind it, sending both of them tumbling down the hall, away from Luthien and Praehotec.

Luthien gawked at the spectacle, as Praehotec, unable to stop the momentum, sank more and more of its foot, then its ankle, into the light.

No, Luthien realized then, not light. Not a sheet of singular light, as he had first thought, but a swirling mass of tiny lights, like little sharp-edged diamonds, spinning about so fast as to appear to be a single field of light.

How they ate at the demon flesh, cutting and gobbling it into nothingness!

Everything turned red then, suddenly, as Praehotec loosed another of its powerful eye bolts, and an instant later, Luthien felt the demon’s blood and gore washing over him. He twisted and squirmed and looked up to find Brind’Amour’s protective barrier gone, along with half of Praehotec’s leg. The demon’s acidic lifeblood gushed forth, splattering the wall and floor and Luthien.

He took up his sword and rolled out from under the wounded demon, came up to his knees just as Oliver, rapier held before him, came gliding past with Estabrooke, the Dark Knight’s great sword glowing a fierce and flaming white.

Luthien tried to rise and join them, but found that he hadn’t the strength, and then Katerin was beside him, bracing his shoulders, hugging him close. She kissed him on the cheek—and he saw that she had taken a cudgel from one of the dead guards.

“I must go,” she whispered, and she scrambled up and ran off, not toward Oliver, Estabrooke, and the demon, but the other way.

Luthien looked back to see Brind’Amour and Paragor rolling and thrashing, alternately crying out. The sight brought the young Bedwyr further out of his stupor; he could control his muscles once more, but how they ached! Still, Luthien knew that he could not sit there, knew that the fight was not yet won.

“Ick!” Oliver said, skidding to a stop before he hit the puddle of demon gore.

Praehotec, leaning against the wall, didn’t seem to notice the halfling. It looked right over Oliver’s head to the shining sword and the armored man, this cavalier, this noble warrior, a relic of a past and more holy age. The demon recognized what this man was, the most hated of all humankind.

“Paladin,” Praehotec snarled, drool falling freely to the floor. Out came the great leathery wings as the beast huffed itself up to its most impressive stance, straight and as tall as the corridor would allow, despite its half-devoured leg.

Oliver was impressed by the fiend’s display, but Estabrooke, crying to God and singing joyfully, charged right in and brought his sword down in a great sweeping strike. The halfling watched his courage, knew the demon’s word, and understood what this man they had met on the fields of Eradoch truly was. “Douzeper,” the halfling muttered.

Estabrooke sheared off Praehotec’s raised arm.

The demon’s other arm came around, battering the man; twin beams became one before Praehotec’s eyes, flashing out, searing through the knight’s armor, aimed at his heart. The stump of the demon’s other arm became a weapon as Praehotec whipped it back and forth, sending a spray of acidic blood into the slits of Estabrooke’s helm.

Still Estabrooke sang, through the blindness and the pain, and he slashed again, gouging a wing, digging into the side of the demon’s chest with tremendous force.

Praehotec, balanced on just one foot, rocked to the side and nearly tumbled. But the beast came back furiously, with a tremendous, hooking blow that rang like a gong when it connected with the side of Estabrooke’s helm and sent the cavalier flying away, to crumple in the corner near to the battered door.

Finally, the wizards broke their entanglement, each scrambling to his feet, dazed and sorely stung. Several lesions showed on Brind’Amour’s skin and the sleeves of his beautiful robes were in tatters. Paragor looked no better, one leg stiff and frozen, icy blotches on his face and arms. The duke shivered and shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or simple rage, Brind’Amour could not tell.

Both were chanting, gathering their energies. Brind’Amour let Paragor lead, and when the duke loosed his power in the form of a bright yellow bolt, Brind’Amour countered with a stroke of the richest blue.

Neither bolt stopped, or even slowed, the other, and both wizards accepted the brutal hits, energy that struck about their heads and shoulders and cascaded down, grounding out at their feet, jolting them both.

“Damn you!” Paragor snarled. He seemed as if he would fall; so did Brind’Amour, the older wizard amazed at how strong this duke truly was.

But Paragor was nearing the end of his powers by then, and so was Brind’Amour, and it was not magic, not even a magical weapon, that ended the battle.

Katerin O’Hale crept up behind the wizard-duke and slammed the cyclopian cudgel down onto the center of his head, right between the hair “wings.” Paragor’s neck contracted and his skull caved in. He gave a short hop, but this time he held his footing only for a split second before falling dead to the floor.

There was no rest, no reprieve, for Praehotec. Before the demon could turn around, Oliver’s rapier dug a neat hole between the ribs of its uninjured side, and more devastating still was the fury of Luthien Bedwyr.

Luthien did not know that word Praehotec had uttered—“paladin”—but he knew the truth of Estabrooke, knew that the man was not just any warrior, but a holy warrior, grounded in principles and in his belief in God. To see him fall wounded Luthien profoundly, reminded him of the evil that had spread over all the land, of the sacrilege in the great cathedrals, where tax rolls were called, of the enslavement of the dwarfs and the elves. Now that fury was loosed in full, defeating any thoughts of fear. Luthien slashed away relentlessly with Blind-Striker, battering the demon about the shoulders and neck, pounding Praehotec down onto the sheared leg, which would not support the beast’s great weight.

Praehotec tumbled to the ground, but Luthien did not relent, striking with all his strength and all his heart. And then, amazingly, Estabrooke was beside him, that shining sword tearing horrible wounds in the demon.

Again Praehotec’s rage was aimed at the cavalier. The demon kicked out with its good foot and at the same time opened wide its maw and vomited, engulfing Estabrooke with a torrent of fire.

The knight fell away, and this time did not rise.

Luthien’s next strike, as soon as the fires dissipated, went into the demon’s open maw, drove through the back of Praehotec’s serpent mouth, and into the beast’s brain. Praehotec convulsed violently, sending Luthien scrambling away, and then the battered beast melted away and dissolved into the floor, leaving a mass of gooey green ichor.

Luthien rushed to Estabrooke and gently turned up the faceplate of the fallen knight’s helm.

Estabrooke’s eyes stared straight up, unseeing, surrounded by cracked skin, burned by demon acid. Luthien heard banging on the door, cyclopian calls for Duke Paragor, but he could not tear himself away from the grievously wounded man.

Somehow Estabrooke smiled. “I pray you,” the knight gasped, blood pouring from his mouth. “Bury me in Caer MacDonald.”

Luthien realized how great a request that was. Estabrooke, this noble warrior, had just validated the revolution in full, had asked to be buried away from his homeland, in the land that he knew to be just and closer to God.

Luthien nodded, could not speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something comforting, to insist that Estabrooke would not die, but he saw the grievous wounds and knew that anything he might say would be a lie.

“Eriador free!” Estabrooke said loudly, smiling still, and then he died.

“Douzeper,” Oliver whispered as he crouched beside Luthien. “Paladin. A goodly man.”

The banging on the door to the outer corridor increased.

“Come, my friend,” Oliver said quietly. “We can do no more here. Let us be gone.”

“Lie down and pretend that you are dead,” Brind’Amour said suddenly, drawing both friends from the dead cavalier. They looked at each other, and then at the wizard, curiously.

“Do it!” Brind’Amour whispered harshly. “And you, too,” he said, turning to Katerin, who seemed as confused as Luthien and Oliver.

The three did as the wizard bade them, and none of them were comfortable when their skin paled, when more blood suddenly covered Katerin and Oliver, who had not been splattered and beaten, as had Luthien.

Their startlement turned to blank amazement when they regarded the wizard, his familiar form melting away, his white hair turning gray and thinning to wild wings over his ears and his head disappearing altogether. As soon as his blue robes turned brownish-yellow, the three understood, and as one, they looked down the hallway to see the dead duke now wearing the form of Brind’Amour.

The wizard clapped his hands together and the door, swollen by Praehotec’s magic, shrunk and fell open before the blows of the cyclopians, led by Paragor’s lacky, Thowattle. The brutes skidded to a stop, overwhelmed by the grisly scene, two dead cyclopians, three mutilated humans and one halfling, and a mess of bubbling green and gray slime.

“Master?” Thowattle asked, regarding Brind’Amour.

“It is over,” Brind’Amour replied, his voice sounding like Paragor’s.

“I will clean it at once, my master!” Thowattle promised, turning to leave.

“No time!” Brind’Amour snapped, stopping the one-armed brute in its tracks. “Assemble the militia! At once! These spies wagged their tongues before I finished with them and told me that a force has indeed gathered at Malpuissant’s Wall.”

The three friends, lying still on the floor, had no idea of what the old wizard was doing.

“At once!” Thowattle agreed. “I will have servants come in to clean . . .”

“They stay with me!” Brind’Amour roared, and he waggled his fingers at the three prone friends and began a soft chant. Luthien, Oliver, and Katerin soon felt a compulsion in their muscles, and heard a telepathic plea from their wizard friend asking them to follow along and trust. Up they stood, one by one, appearing as zombies.

“What better torment for the doomed fools of Eriador than to see their heroes as undead slaves of their enemy?” the fake duke asked, and Thowattle, always a lover of the macabre, smiled wickedly. The brute gave a curt bow and its cyclopian companions followed suit. Then they were gone, and Brind’Amour, with a wave of his hand, closed the door behind them and swelled it shut once more.

“What was that about?” Oliver asked incredulously, for a moment, even wondering if this was really Brind’Amour, and not Paragor, standing in the hall.

“Glen Durritch,” Brind’Amour explained. “Even as we sit here and banter, our army, under Siobhan’s direction, has taken the high ground all about Glen Durritch. My excited cyclopian fool will give orders to double-time to Malpuissant’s Wall, to meet with the Eriadorans there.”

“And the Princetown garrison will be slaughtered in the glen,” Luthien reasoned.

“Better than fighting them when they’re behind city walls,” the devious wizard added. Brind’Amour looked back at Oliver. “You and I once spoke of your value to Eriador beyond the battles,” he said, and Oliver nodded, though Luthien and Katerin had no idea of what the two were talking about.

“The time has come,” Brind’Amour insisted, “though I will need the rest of the night to recuperate and regain any measure of my magical powers.”

Brind’Amour looked closely at Estabrooke then, and sighed deeply, truly pained by the sight. He had spoken with the cavalier at length over the last couple of days, and was not surprised when Estabrooke had insisted on sitting beside him, waiting in case the magical tunnel should open. Brind’Amour hadn’t hesitated in the least about letting the knight accompany him, fully trusting the man, realizing the goodness that guided the knight’s every action. Estabrooke’s death was a huge loss to Eriador and to all the world, but Brind’Amour took heart that the man had redeemed his actions on behalf of the evil Paragor, had seen the truth and acted accordingly.

“Come,” Brind’Amour said at length, “let us see what niceties Paragor’s palace has to offer to four weary travelers.”