The Sword of Bedwyr

4 Wet with the Blood of a Fallen Enemy

What might have been had the parents of a king not met? What might have been had a hero been cut down in his or her youth by an arrow that whizzed harmlessly past, cracking the air barely an inch away? Often does the simplest chance affect the history of nations, and so it was that August night, when Luthien walked out of House Bedwyr to the stables, where he found Ethan readying a horse, saddlebags stuffed with provisions.

Luthien moved near his brother, eyeing him curiously, letting his expression ask the obvious question.

“I have been sent away,” Ethan answered.

Luthien seemed not to understand.

“I am to go to the south,” Ethan went on, spitting out every word with disgust, “to travel with the king’s soldiers who would go into Gascony and fight beside the Gascons in their war with the Kingdom of Duree.”

“A noble cause,” replied Luthien, too overwhelmed to consider his words.

“A mercenary cause,” Ethan snarled back. “A mercenary cause for an unlawful king.”

“Then why go?”

Ethan stopped tightening the saddlebags and turned an incredulous look upon his naive little brother. Luthien just shrugged, still not catching on.

“Because the eorl of Bedwydrin has ordered me to go.” Ethan spelled it out plainly and went back to his work.

It made no sense to Luthien, and so he did not reply, did not even blink.

“It will bring honor to our family and to all Bedwydrin, so said Gahris,” Ethan went on.

Luthien studied his brother carefully, at first jealous that Gahris had chosen Ethan for the campaign over him. “Would not Blind-Striker serve you better if you go for the honor of House Bedwyr?” he asked, noticing the unremarkable weapon sheathed on Ethan’s belt.

Again came that disbelieving, condescending look. “Can you be so incredibly blind to the world?” Ethan asked, and he got his answer when Luthien winced.

“Gahris sends me,” the elder son went on, “following the whispered suggestions of Aubrey. Gahris sends me to die.”

The casual way Ethan spoke struck Luthien more than the words. He grabbed Ethan roughly by the shoulder and spun him away from his horse, forcing his brother to face him squarely.

“I am not his choice for the succession,” Ethan spat out, and Luthien, remembering his earlier conversation with his father, could not disagree. “But the rules are clear. I am the eldest son, thus I am next in line as eorl of Bedwydrin.”

“I do not challenge your right,” Luthien replied, still missing the point.

“But Gahris does,” Ethan explained. “And my reputation of disloyalty has gone beyond Bedwydrin, it would seem.”

“So Gahris will send you out with the army to win glory and restore your reputation,” Luthien reasoned, though he suspected his line of thought was still traveling the wrong direction.

“So Gahris has sent me out to die,” Ethan reiterated firmly. “I am a problem to him—even Aubrey has heard of me and understands the difficulties of my potential ascension. Perhaps it is my arrogance, but I do not think Morkney’s cousin’s only purpose in coming to Bedwydrin was sport.”

“You think Aubrey braved the breakers of the Dorsal, came all the way to Bedwydrin, merely to have you sent away?”

“Beyond that, my young brother,” Ethan said, and for the first time, a ring of sympathy was evident in his harsh tones. “My young brother, who has never known freedom, who has lived all his life under the rule of Carlisle and Montfort.”

Luthien crinkled his brow, now thoroughly confused.

“Aubrey toured the northern islands,” Ethan explained. “Caryth, Marvis, Bedwydrin, even the Diamondgate on his return trip, to ensure that all was as it should be in the northland, to help secure Morkney’s tethers. Politicians do not take ‘holidays.’ Ever they work, living to work, to heighten their power. That is their way and their lifeblood. Aubrey came to Bedwydrin in part to deal with me, and also because the duke has no eyes out here. That has been remedied.” His work on the mount done, Ethan swung up into the saddle.

“You will have a new mother, Luthien,” he went on. “Treat her with respect and fear.” He started to walk the horse away, but Luthien, flustered and outraged, grabbed the bridle and held the beast in check.

“One who is known to you,” Ethan went on. “One whose pennant you once carried into battle.”

Luthien’s eyes widened in shock. Avonese? This could not be true! “Never!” he protested.

“On Sunday’s morn,” Ethan assured him. “The duke has forced Gahris’s hand,” he explained. “Lady Avonese remains, the perfect spy, to wed Gahris. It is bait, you see, for the fall of the House of Bedwyr. Gahris will bend to the events, or Morkney will have the excuse he desires and will bid Greensparrow to fill the harbor with black sails.”

“How can you leave?” Luthien cried out helplessly as all of his sheltered world appeared to be falling down around him.

“How can I stay?” Ethan corrected calmly. “Gahris has given his command.” Ethan paused and stared hard at his brother, his intensity offering a calming effect to the excited young man.

“You know little beyond Bedwydrin,” Ethan said sincerely. “You have not seen the eyes of the poor children starving in Montfort’s streets. You have not seen the farmers, broken in spirit and wealth by demanded taxes. You have not seen the helpless rage of a man whose daughter was taken from him to ‘serve’ in the house of a noble, or heard the cries of a mother whose child has died in her arms for lack of food.”

Luthien’s grip on Ethan’s saddle loosened.

“I do not accept the world as it is,” Ethan went on. “I only know how it should be. And our father, lackey to an unlawful king, has not the strength nor the courage to stand up and agree with me.”

Ethan recognized that his blunt accounting was finally beginning to sink into Luthien’s naive skull. If he had hit Luthien with a dwarvish maul, he could not have stunned the man any more. Beyond all their differences, Ethan loved and pitied his brother, who had never known life before Greensparrow, the king who had subtly stolen away true freedom.

“Farewell, my brother,” Ethan said solemnly. “You are all of my family that I will miss. Keep your eyes to the window and your ears to the door, and above all, beware the Lady Avonese!” A kick of his heels sent his horse leaping away, leaving the perplexed Luthien alone in the yard with his unsettling thoughts.

Luthien did not sleep that night and wandered the grounds alone all the next day, not even harking to a call from Katerin, who saw him from across a field. Again the next night, he did not sleep, thinking of Ethan, of Garth Rogar, of this new view of Gahris.

Most of all, Luthien thought of confronting his father, of calling Gahris out on the accusations Ethan had boldly made. What might the other side of that tale be? he wondered.

But it was a false hope. Ethan’s few words had opened Luthien’s young eyes, and he did not believe that he could ever close them again.

And so, in the morning of the next day, he went to see Gahris, not to seek any explanation but to put in his own thoughts, to express his anger over the tragedy in the arena and the fact that this Avonese creature was apparently intended to become his mother.

He smiled when he considered how much like Ethan he would sound and wondered if his father would send him away to fight in a distant war, as well.

He entered the study without even knocking, only to find the room empty. Gahris had already left on his morning ride. Luthien started to leave, thinking to go down to the stables and take a horse of his own and ride off in pursuit of the man. He changed his mind almost immediately, though, realizing that Avonese might be riding beside his father, and the last thing in all the world that Luthien wanted was to see that woman.

He made himself comfortable in the study instead, perusing the books on the shelves, even starting a fire in the hearth. He was sitting back in the comfortable chair, feet propped on the desk and book in hand, when the door burst open and a burly guardsman rushed in.

“What are you about?” the cyclopian demanded, waving a trident dangerously. He remained near to the door, though, across the room from Luthien.

“About?” Luthien echoed incredulously, and then his face screwed up even more, for he did not recognize this guard—though he knew all of Gahris’s contingent.

“About!” the brute roared back. “What business have you in the private quarters of the eorl and eorless of Bedwydrin?”

“Eorless?” Luthien muttered under his breath, and he nearly choked on the word.

“I asked you a question!” the cyclopian growled, waving its trident again.

“Who in the lava pits of the Five Sentinels are you to ask anything of me?” the young Bedwyr demanded.

“Personal guard of the eorless of Bedwydrin,” the one-eyed soldier replied without hesitation.

“I am the son of the eorl,” Luthien proclaimed.

“I know who you are, arena fighter,” the cyclopian replied, snapping the trident aside. It was only then, as the brute jerked about and revealed a crossbow strapped to its wide back, that Luthien realized the creature’s identity. He leaped up from his seat, dropping the book to the desk.

“You were not announced,” the cyclopian continued undaunted. “So here you do not belong! Now be gone, before I teach you some of the proper etiquette of nobility!”

The cyclopian clutched the long trident close to its chest and slowly turned toward the door, keeping its bloodshot eye on Luthien for as long as possible.

Luthien stood transfixed, held in place by the enormity of the situation that had been unexpectedly dropped on his shoulders. He had vowed revenge, and now his sworn enemy, whom he had thought long gone on the black-sailed ship, stood before him. But what of the consequences? he had to wonder—and what purpose might be served to Aubrey by leaving this particular cyclopian behind? To leave Avonese behind was one thing—Luthien would not strike down a woman who was no warrior—but to allow this murderous brute to remain on Bedwydrin was beyond Luthien’s comprehension. Surely the viscount must have known what would happen. . . .

Ethan’s words about bait for the fall of House Bedwyr rang in Luthien’s mind, and he knew that his decision now would follow him for the rest of his life.

“You will follow me,” the cyclopian remarked, not looking back and giving Luthien a perfect view of the crossbow he had used to murder Garth Rogar.

“Tell me,” Luthien began calmly, “did you enjoy killing a human while he lay helpless upon the ground?”

The cyclopian whirled about and faced the young man squarely, an evil smile widening upon its face, showing Luthien an array of pointy and yellow-stained teeth. “I always enjoy killing men,” the cyclopian said. “Are you to leave, or learn that for yourself?”

His action purely reflexive, Luthien reached down and grabbed a stone that his father kept on the desk for holding parchments smooth and, in a swift motion, hurled it across the room, where it smacked off the dodging cyclopian’s thigh. The creature groaned, then growled and leveled its trident Luthien’s way.

“That was not among your brightest actions,” Luthien said quietly to himself, taking the moment to realize that he wasn’t even wearing a weapon. In stalked the one-eyed brute. Luthien scooped up a wooden chair to use as a shield, but the first powerful thrust of the trident shattered it to kindling and left Luthien scrambling.

He rolled from behind the desk to the hearth and grabbed up a long metal hook used for turning logs. He spun back and put his feet under him just in time to meet the second thrust. Fortunately, the sweeping hook caught the tip of the trident enough to deflect the weapon somewhat to the side, and agile Luthien twisted the other way. Still, he got a painful scratch on the side of his abdomen, a line of blood staining his torn white shirt.

The cyclopian licked its pointy teeth and smiled wide.

“I have no weapon!” Luthien protested.

“That makes it all the more fun,” the cyclopian replied, and it started a straight thrust, then reversed its weapon and swung the butt end about in a low arc. Seeing the feint in time, Luthien managed to stop his dodging defense and leap straight up, over the swing. He landed and took one step forward, and poked his fingers straight ahead into the cyclopian’s eye.

The powerful backswing of the trident stung the young man again, knocking him aside before he could do any real damage to the large, bloodshot orb, but he had dazed the cyclopian enough to break off combat.

And Luthien knew right where to run.

Back to the hearth he leaped, this time high on the balls of his feet. “You should have finished me while you could!” he cried, and grabbed the dragon-sculpted hilt of the fabulous Bedwyr sword. He laughed and yanked, and pulled the sword free—almost.

Now the cyclopian was laughing—and leveling that wicked trident once more.

Luthien had torn out the hook holding the hilt, but the second hook, near the sword’s point, held stubbornly to the wall. The sword was angled far out, but its razor-edge tip was merely digging a line in the stone of the wall. Luthien heaved again to no avail; he rolled about to put all his weight behind the pull, and from that angle, he clearly saw the cyclopian’s charge.

He shouted and heaved with all his might, and the sword snapped free of the hook and whipped around and down, smashing hard against the trident’s tip just an instant before it would have plunged deeply into his chest. Both combatants were now off balance, their weapons out far too wide for any counter attacks, so Luthien planted one foot against the stonework of the hearth and rushed out at full speed, barreling into his opponent and sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Luthien was up, quick as a cat. He spun and launched a downward cut, but to his amazement, the trident came up and blocked him, the sword blade falling neatly into the groove between two of the weapon’s three tips. With a growl, the cyclopian threw him to the side, fully defeating Luthien’s attack.

“I am no child in an arena,” the one-eye boasted. “I was a commander in the Praetorian Guard!” On the cyclopian came with a series of devilish thrusts and feints, half twists designed to make Luthien duck a second butt-end sweep, followed by reversed movements that again sent the trident straight out in front. The cyclopian worked the long weapon brilliantly, as though it was a small blade, keeping Luthien fully on the defensive.

But neither was the son of Bedwyr some “child in an arena.” Luthien’s parries were perfect; he reversed his intended dodges as quickly as the cyclopian reversed the attack. Not once did the trident so much as nick him.

Luthien knew that he was in a tough fight, though, and his respect for the cyclopian grew with each close pass. They worked around the room, Luthien, with the shorter weapon, inevitably backing and circling, and the cyclopian quick to press. Then Luthien scrambled behind a divan, an effective shield from the waist down.

He smiled as he easily knocked aside a high thrust, then chopped his blade down atop a lower cut, temporarily pinning the trident to the top of the divan. He could see the frustration building in the one-eye’s expression, and he skittered back cautiously when the cyclopian came in a sudden charge, appearing as though it might bull its way right through the small couch.

The cyclopian wisely stopped before it crashed through, for it realized that it would not quickly catch up to the agile Luthien, and knowing that if the couch tangled its feet at all, the cunning young fighter and his sword would surely grab the advantage. The cyclopian then tried to push the piece of furniture aside, but Luthien, understanding that the divan offered him an advantage with his shorter weapon, rushed back in and sliced with the sword, almost taking off the cyclopian’s hand and digging a deep slash into the padding of the couch in the process.

“Gahris will not be pleased,” Luthien remarked, trying to sound supremely confident.

“Not when he buries his son!” the cyclopian roared, and on the brute came again, a powerful thrust leading the way. The soldier expected Luthien to chop down again, to try and pin the trident to the top of the divan, and if that had happened, the cyclopian intended to barrel through, pushing both Luthien and the couch closer to the wall.

But Luthien dropped straight to a crouch instead, and his parry came in exactly the opposite direction, sword straight across in front of him and going up, not down. Up, too, went the trident, and opportunistic Luthien went up behind the weapons, up and over the divan in a headlong roll. The cyclopian instinctively fell back, trying to realign his weapon, but Luthien came up under his reach, sword leading the way.

Blind-Striker’s tip dug into the cyclopian’s belly and ran its way up through the creature’s diaphragm, cutting at the lungs and heart. The one-eye had the trident up above its head by that time, and angled down at Luthien, and for a horrifying second, Luthien thought the wicked prongs would dive down into him.

Then he saw the light go out of the cyclopian’s eye, saw the strength drain from the dying brute’s thick muscles. The trident fell to the floor, its dead owner sliding back off of Luthien’s sword and falling over it.

Luthien tentatively regained his footing, staring down at the perfectly still cyclopian. His first kill. Luthien did not enjoy the sensation, not at all. He looked at the dead cyclopian and reminded himself many times that this had been the murderer of Garth Rogar, that this brute would have killed him if he had not proven the better warrior. And it was a cyclopian. Sheltered Luthien could not fully appreciate the significance of that fact, but he did understand that cyclopians were not human, in either appearance or temperament. The one-eyes were savage creatures, evil creatures, devoid of love and mercy. This knowledge alone saved the young man from his own conscience at that moment, and allowed Luthien to take heart. A deep breath helped steady the young warrior.

Luthien looked at the bloody sword. Its balance was perfect and its deadly cut incredible. Luthien could not believe how easily Blind-Striker had slid through the thick leather coat of the cyclopian and through the creature’s body, as well. He had, with a simple cut, chopped more than half a foot into the well-constructed divan, taking out a few boards, he knew, on the way. Holding the sword now, his vow fulfilled, his friend avenged, he felt the blood of his proud ancestors pumping wildly through his veins.

Then Luthien calmed and realized that he had set many events into motion—events that would likely bury him if he remained in Dun Varna. But Luthien wept no tears of pity for his predicament. He had made his choice willingly when he had thrown the stone at the brute and forced the confrontation. There could be no excuses, not in Gahris’s cowed eyes, he knew—if all that Ethan had said was true. Luthien now replayed his last meeting with his father, listened to Gahris’s words in the new light of Ethan’s revelations. His brother had not lied to him.

Luthien could hardly believe how much his life had so abruptly changed, and how it would continue to change as he, now obviously a criminal, made his way far from Dun Varna, far from Bedwydrin. He thought that he must catch up to Ethan on the road, for surely his brother would sympathize with his actions and help him along his way. Luthien cringed. Ethan had probably already reached the ferry to Eriador’s mainland. Where would his brother go from there? To Montfort, perhaps? Or all the way around the Iron Cross to Carlisle?

Luthien looked out the room’s one small window and could see that the sun was fast climbing in the east. His father would soon return; Luthien would have to find his answers along the road.

He thought of taking the sword—he had never felt such perfect craftsmanship. But Blind-Striker was not his, he knew, especially not now. Though he thought his actions justified and honorable, demanded by the death of his friend, in Luthien’s young eyes, he had just brought shame upon House Bedwyr. He would not complicate that matter by stooping to common thievery.

He did not wipe the blood from the blade as he carefully replaced it above the hearth. He thought it fitting that Gahris should see what weapon had exacted revenge for the unfair death of Garth Rogar.