Dragon King The Page 11

  “I looked for you,” Luthien said. “I killed the cyclopian who murdered Garth Rogar, and then I looked for you, to the south, where you were supposedly heading.”

  “I took him there,” Oliver had to say, if for no other reason than the fact that the halfling couldn’t stand being on the sidelines of any conversation for so long.

  “I, too, considered our father dead,” Luthien went on, “though I assure you that in the end the man redeemed himself.”

  “He thought of you on the night he died,” Katerin put in. “His guilt weighed heavily on him.”

  “As it should have,” said Ethan.

  “Agreed,” Luthien replied. “And I make no excuses for the world from which you fled. But that world is no more, I promise. Eriador is free now.”

  “What concern have we of your petty squabbles?” Asmund asked incredulously. As soon as he regarded the man, Luthien realized that the Huegoth feared that Luthien might be stealing some fun here. “You speak of Greensparrow and Eriador as though they are not the same. To us, you are deg jern-alfar, and nothing more!”

  Deg jern-alfar. Luthien knew the word, an Isenland term for any who was not Huegoth.

  “And I am Huegoth,” Ethan insisted before Luthien could make any points about his Eriadoran blood. Ethan looked to a nodding Asmund. “Huegoth by deed.”

  “You are a Huegoth who understands the importance of what I say,” Luthien added quickly. “Eriador is free, but if you continue your raids, you are aiding Greensparrow in his desires to take us back under his evil wing.” For the first time, it seemed to Luthien as if he had gotten through to his stubborn brother. He knew that Ethan, whatever his claim of loyalty, was thrilled at the idea that Eriador had broken free of Avon, and Luthien knew, too, that the thought that the Huegoth actions, that Ethan’s own actions, might be aiding the man who had, by sending the plague, murdered their mother and broken their father, was truly agonizing to Ethan.

  “And what would you ask of me?” the older Bedwyr brother asked after a short pause.

  “Desist,” said Oliver, stepping in front. Luthien wanted to slap the halfling for taking center stage at that critical point. “Take your silly boat and go back to where you belong. We have four-score warships—”

  Luthien pushed Oliver aside, and when the halfling tried to resist, Katerin grabbed him by the collar, spun him about and scowled in his face, a look that conjured images in Oliver of being thrown to the floor and sat upon by the woman.

  “Join with us,” Luthien said on a sudden impulse. He realized how stupid that sounded even as the words left his mouth, but he knew that the last thing one should do to a Huegoth (as Oliver had just done) was issue a challenge of honor. Threatening King Asmund with eighty galleons would force the fierce man to accept the war. “With nearly four-score warships and your fleet, we might—”

  “You ask this of me?” Ethan said, slapping himself on the chest.

  Luthien straightened. “You are my brother,” he said firmly. “And were of Eriador, whatever your claim may now be. I demand that you ask of your king to halt the raids on Eriador’s coast. For all that has happened, we are not your enemies.”

  Ethan snorted and didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder at Asmund. “Do not put too much weight on my ability to influence my Huegoth brothers,” Ethan said. “King Asmund, and not I, decides the Huegoth course.”

  “But you were willing to go along,” Luthien accused, his face twisting in sudden rage. “While Eriadorans died, Ethan Bedwyr did nothing!”

  “Ethan Bedwyr is dead,” the man called Vinndalf replied.

  “And does Vinndalf not remember all the good that Luthien Bedwyr brought to his younger life?” Katerin asked.

  Ethan’s broad shoulders slumped for just an instant, a subtle indication that Katerin had hit a chord. Ethan straightened quickly, though, and stared hard at Luthien.

  “I will beg of my king to give you this much,” Ethan said evenly. “On mighty Asmund’s word, we will let you leave, will deliver you and Katerin and your puffy and puny friend back to the coast of Bae Colthwyn, south of Gybi.”

  “And the others?” Luthien asked grimly.

  “Fairly taken,” Ethan replied.

  Luthien squared up and shook his head. “All of them,” he insisted. “Every man and woman returned to Eriador, their home.”

  For a long moment, it seemed a stand-off. Then Rennir, who was enjoying it all, crossed the room to Ethan and handed the man Blind-Striker. Ethan looked long and hard at the sword, the most important relic of his former family. After a moment, he chuckled, and then, eyeing Luthien in an act of open defiance, he strapped the magnificent weapon about his waist.

  “You said you were no longer of family Bedwyr,” remarked Luthien, looking for some advantage, and trying to take the edge from his own rising anger. Seeing Ethan—no, Vinndalf—wearing that sword was nearly more than Luthien could take.

  “True enough,” Ethan replied casually, as though that fact was of no importance.

  “Yet you wear the Bedwyr sword.”

  Now it was Ethan’s turn to laugh, and Rennir and Asmund, and all the other Huegoths joined in. “I wear a weapon plundered from a vanquished enemy,” Ethan corrected. “Fairly won, like the men who will serve as slaves. Take my offer, former brother. Go, and with Katerin. I cannot guarantee her safety here, and as for your little friend, I can assure you that he will find a most horrible fate at the hands of the men of Isenland, who do not accept such weakness.”

  “Weakness?” Oliver stammered, but Katerin slapped her hand over his mouth to shut him up before he got them all killed.

  “All of them,” Luthien said firmly. “And I’ll have the sword as well.”

  “Why should I give to you anything?” Ethan asked.

  “Do not!” roared Luthien as the laughter began to mount around him once more. “I ask for nothing from one so cowardly as to disclaim his heritage. But I’ll have what I desire, by spilled blood if not by family blood!”

  Ethan’s head tilted back at that open challenge. “We have fought before,” he said.

  Luthien didn’t answer.

  “I was victorious,” Ethan reminded.

  “I was younger.”

  Ethan looked to Asmund, who made no move.

  “The slaves are not yours to give,” said Rennir. “The capture was mine.”

  Ethan nodded his agreement.

  “Fight for the sword, then,” offered Asmund.

  “All of them,” Luthien said firmly.

  “For the sword,” Ethan corrected. “And for your freedom, and the freedom of Katerin and the little one. Nothing more.”

  “That much, save the sword, was already offered,” Luthien argued.

  “An offer rescinded,” said Ethan. “You challenged me openly. Now you will see it through, though the gain is little more than what you would have found without challenge, and the loss—and you will lose—is surely greater!”

  Luthien looked to Asmund and saw that he would find no sympathy there, and no better offers. He had stepped into dynamics that he did not fully understand, he realized. It seemed to Luthien as though Asmund had desired this combat from the moment the king learned that Luthien and Ethan were brothers. Perhaps it was a test of Ethan’s loyalty, or more likely, brutal Asmund just thought it would be fine sport.

  Behind Luthien, Katerin O’Hale’s voice was as grim as anything the young Bedwyr had ever heard. “Kill him.”

  The words, and the image they conjured, nearly knocked Luthien over. He was hardly conscious, his breath labored, as his companions were pushed away, as Rennir handed him a sword, as Ethan drew out Blind-Striker and began a determined and deadly approach.

  SIBLING RIVALRY

  Ethan’s initial swing brought Luthien’s swirling thoughts back to crystal clarity, his survival instincts overruling all the craziness and potential for disaster. The weapon Rennir had given him was not very balanced, and was even heavier than the six-pound, one-and-a-half-
handed Blind-Striker. He took it up in both hands and twisted hard, dipping his right shoulder and laying the blade angled down.

  Blind-Striker hit the blocking blade hard enough for Luthien to realize that if he hadn’t thrown up the last-second parry, he would have been cut in half.

  “Ethan!” he yelled instinctively as a rush of memories—of fighting in the arena, of training as a young boy under his older brother’s tutelage, of sharing quiet moments beside Ethan in the hills outside of Dun Varna—assaulted him.

  The man who was known as Vinndalf didn’t respond to the call in the least. He backed up one step and sent Blind-Striker around the other way, coming straight in at Luthien’s side.

  Luthien reversed his pivot, and his grip, dropping his left shoulder this time, launching the heavy weapon the other way and cleanly picking off the attack. Ahead came Luthien’s left foot; the logical counter was a straightforward thrust.

  Ethan was already moving, directly back, out of harm’s way and not even needing to parry the short attack. That done, he took up his sword, the magnificent Bedwyr sword, in both hands and began to circle to his right.

  Luthien turned with him. He could hardly believe that he had so thrust at his own brother, that if Ethan had not been so quick, he would be lying on the floor, his guts spilling. Luthien dismissed such images. This was for real, he told himself; this was for his very life and the lives of his dearest friends, as well. He could not be distracted by contrary feelings, could not think of his opponent as his brother. Now he tried to remember again the arena in Dun Varna, tried to remember the style of Ethan’s moves.

  Ethan dropped his shoulder and came ahead in a quickstep, lunging for Luthien’s lead knee. The attack stopped short, though, before Blind-Striker even tapped Luthien’s parrying blade, and Ethan threw himself to the side, his other foot rushing right beside his leading leg, turning him in a complete circuit. Down to one knee he went, both hands on his sword as it came across in a devious cut.

  Luthien had seen the trick before and was long out of danger before Ethan even finished.

  Ethan had been a mature fighter when last they had battled, and so Luthien thought it unlikely that his tactics would have changed much. But Luthien had been young on that occasion, a novice fighter just learning the measure of single combat.

  That was his advantage.

  Ethan was up to his feet, dropping one hand for balance and charging hard in the blink of an eye, Blind-Striker going left, right, straight ahead, then right again. Steel rang against steel, Luthien working furiously to keep the deadly blade at bay. Those attacks defeated, Ethan took up the weapon in both hands and chopped hard at Luthien’s head, once, twice, and then again.

  Luthien beat them all, but stumbled backward under the sheer weight of the furious blows. He wanted to offer a fast counter, but this sword, half-again as heavy as the weapon he was used to carrying, would not allow for any quick response. And so he backed away as wild-eyed Ethan forged onward, slamming with abandon.

  Now Luthien concentrated on conserving his strength, on picking off the attacks with as little motion as possible. He willingly gave ground, came near to the hut wall and shifted his angle so that, propelled by yet another brutal blow, he went right out the door into the dazzling daylight.

  A throng of Huegoths swarmed about the battling brothers; Luthien saw Katerin and Oliver come to the door, Rennir roughly pushing them aside to make way for grinning Asmund.

  Oh, this was great play for the fierce Isenlanders, Luthien realized.

  The uneven and stony ground somewhat took away Ethan’s advantage of wielding the lighter and quicker weapon. Suddenly footwork was of the utmost importance, and no warrior Luthien had ever met, with the possible exception of fleet-footed Oliver deBurrows, was better at footwork than he. Luthien skittered right along the uneven ground, deftly trailing his heavy sword to pick off any of pursuing Ethan’s attacks. He came to a spot where the ground sloped steeply and saw his chance. Up Luthien went, beyond Blind-Striker’s reach as Ethan came by below him, and then down Luthien charged in a fury, suddenly pressing his brother with a series of momentum-backed chops.

  Perfectly balanced, Ethan was up to the defense, picking off or dodging each blow. It occurred to Luthien then, when he thought he had gained an advantage, that the endgame of this combat would not go well. Win or lose, the young Bedwyr would find himself in a bind. Would it be to the death? And if so, how could Luthien possibly kill his own brother? And even if it wasn’t to the death, Luthien understood that he had much to lose, and so did Ethan, for Ethan had likely only gained acceptance among the fierce barbarians through skill in battle. Now, in this encounter, if Ethan lost their respect . . .

  Luthien didn’t like the prospects, but he had no time to pause and try and discern another way out. Ethan went up high on the sloping stone, trying to get the angle above him, and he had to work furiously to keep up.

  Out came Blind-Striker in a wicked thrust, suddenly, as the brothers picked their way up the stone. Luthien couldn’t possibly get his heavier blade in line in time, nor could he dodge in the difficult position, so he rolled instead, out from Ethan and then down the slope, coming lightly to his feet some twenty feet below his brother.

  He heard Katerin cry out for him, and Oliver’s groan in the midst of the cheers of a hundred bloodthirsty Huegoths.

  Down came Ethan, spurred on by his comrades, but Luthien was not going to grant him the higher ground. Off sped the younger Bedwyr, running away from the slope. Ethan yelled out as he pursued, even going so far as to call his brother a coward.

  Luthien was no coward, but he had learned the advantage of choosing his ground. So it was now, with Ethan fast closing. Luthien turned along the beach to a small jetty, skipping gingerly atop its stones. Now he had the high ground, but Ethan, so enraged, so full of adrenaline, did not slow, came in hacking wildly, thrusting Blind-Striker this way and that, searching for a hole in Luthien’s defenses.

  There was no such hole to be found; Luthien’s blocks were perfect, but Ethan did manage to sidle up the rocks as he attacked, gradually coming near to Luthien’s level. Luthien saw the tactic, of course, and could have stopped it by shifting to directly block his brother, but he had something else in mind.

  Up came Ethan. Luthien’s sword started for the man’s knees and Ethan jumped back, launching a vicious downward cut.

  Luthien’s thrust had been a feint; before he ever got close, and as Ethan started the obvious counter, the young Bedwyr moved back a step, reversed his grip on his heavy sword, and shifted it, not to block Blind-Striker, but to deflect the sword. As Ethan’s weapon scraped by, Luthien turned his blade over it and shoved it down for the rocks, and off-balance Ethan could not resist. Sparks flew from Blind-Striker’s fine tip as the gleaming blade dove into a crevice between the stones.

  From his lower angle, Ethan could not immediately pull it out. One step up would allow him to extract the blade, yet he could not make that step. He had lost a split second, and against cunning Luthien, a split second was too long.

  Endgame.

  Luthien knew it, but had no idea of what to make of it. Images of Katerin and Oliver as Huegoth prisoners flashed in his mind, yet this fledgling Eriador would not likely survive his victory. His foot slipped out from under him suddenly, and down he went to the stone, his sword bouncing away. He rolled up to a sitting position, holding his bruised and bleeding hand.

  Ethan stood over him, Blind-Striker in hand. In looking into his eyes, those trademark Bedwyr eyes, Luthien thought for a moment that his brother would surely kill him.

  Then Ethan paused, seeming unsure of himself, a mixture of frustration and rage. He couldn’t do it, could not kill his brother, and that fact seemed to bother the man who called himself Vinndalf more than a little.

  Blind-Striker came in to rest at the side of Luthien’s neck.

  “I claim victory!” Ethan bellowed.

  “Enough!” roared Asmund before Ethan had even finished. T
he Huegoth king said something to the man standing beside him, and a host of Huegoths moved to join the brothers.

  “Into the King’s Hall!” one of them commanded Ethan, while two others roughly hoisted Luthien to his feet and half-carried him across the beach, past the hundred sets of curious eyes, Oliver’s and Katerin’s among them, and into King Asmund’s quarters. There, Luthien was thrown to the floor, right beside his standing brother, and then all the Huegoths, save Asmund himself, quickly departed.

  Luthien spent a moment looking from the seated king to his brother, then slowly rose. Ethan would not look at him.

  “Clever boy,” Asmund congratulated.

  Luthien eyed him skeptically, not knowing what he was driving at.

  “You had him beaten,” Asmund said bluntly.

  “I thought so, but—” Luthien tried to reply.

  Asmund’s laughter stopped him short.

  “I claim victory!” Ethan growled.

  Asmund abruptly stopped his laughing and stared hard at Ethan. “There is no dishonor in defeat at the hands of a skilled warrior,” the Huegoth insisted. “And by my eyes, your brother is as skilled as you!”

  Ethan lowered his gaze, then sighed deeply and turned to Luthien. “You tricked me twice,” he said. “First in putting my blade between the rocks, and then by pretending to stumble.”

  “The stones were wet,” Luthien protested. “Slick with weeds.”

  “You did not trip,” Ethan said.

  “No,” Asmund agreed. “He fell because he thought it better to fall.” The king laughed again at the incredulous expression that came over Luthien. “You would not kill Ethan,” the keen leader explained. “And you held faith that he would not kill you. Yet if you defeated him, you feared that, though our agreement would be honored concerning the sword and the release of you and your friends, any chance of the greater good, of ending our raids along your coast, would be destroyed.”

  Luthien was truly at a loss. Asmund had seen through his ploy so easily and so completely! He had no answer and so he stood as calmly as he could manage and waited for the fierce king’s judgment.