of the brutal tumble that if he did not get right back up he would soon be skewered did he manage to keep his wits about him. He also wisely held onto the bow, and he whipped it across in front as he finally managed to put his feet under him just in time to bat aside the next thrusting attack.
Oliver was able to line up his pony so that both remaining cyclopians were facing him. His rapier snapped back and forth over the pony’s low-hung head, intercepting cut after cut. The halfling tried to appear nonchalant, even bored, but in truth he was more than a little concerned. These cyclopians were pretty good and their weapons finely made. Still, Oliver had not survived two decades as a highwayman without a few tricks up his puffy white sleeve.
“Behind you!” he cried suddenly, and one of the cyclopians almost fell for the obvious ruse, almost turned its head to look over its shoulder—not an easy feat when you have only one eye located in the middle of your face!
The other cyclopian kept up its attack without a blink, and the foolish one came back doubly hard as soon as it realized how stupid it looked.
But not only did Oliver guess that the brutes wouldn’t fall for the ruse, he hoped they wouldn’t. “Behind you!” he cried again, just to egg them on a bit more, just to make them think that he thought they were stupid. Predictably, both cyclopians growled and pressed harder.
Oliver kicked his heels and his yellow pony leaped forward, right between the brutes. So intent were they on their offensive posture, the cyclopians didn’t even mark Oliver’s swift maneuver as the halfling let go the bridle and rolled off the back end of the pony, turning a complete somersault and landing easily on his feet. The cyclopians swung about as the horse cut between them, and Oliver promptly jabbed his rapier blade deep into the rump of one.
The cyclopian howled and whipped about, and a snap of Oliver’s rapier sent the outraged brute’s sword falling free.
“Foolish one-eyed sniffer of barnyard animals!” the halfling snorted, holding his hands out wide in disbelief. “I, polite Oliver deBurrows, even told you that it would come from behind!” The halfling then assumed his best fencing posture, free hand on hip. He yelled and leaped forward as if to strike, and the wounded cyclopian turned and fled, howling and fiercely rubbing its stuck butt.
The other cyclopian came on, though, viciously.
“You should be so wise as your friend,” Oliver taunted, parrying one swing, ducking a second, and hopping over a third. “You are no match for Oliver deBurrows!”
In response, the cyclopian came on with such a vicious flurry that Oliver was put back on his heels, and though he could have poked his rapier home a dozen times, any offensive strike would surely have allowed the cyclopian a solid hit at him, as well. The creature was strong and its sword nearly as heavy as the halfling, and Oliver wanted no part of that trade.
“I could be wrong,” the halfling admitted again, working furiously to keep the brute off of him. He gave a short and sharp whistle then, but the cyclopian took no note of it.
An instant later, Oliver’s yellow pony slammed into the brute’s back, throwing it facedown on the turf, and the pony continued forward, clambering atop the groaning cyclopian. The curious-looking and curiously trained pony then began hopping up and down, crunching bones with every short jump.
“Have you met my horse?” Oliver asked politely.
The cyclopian roared and tried to rise, but a hoof crushed the side of its face.
Luthien was hurt more than he cared to admit. The wounds wouldn’t have been serious, except that he was engaged in a brutal fight at the moment and his head was pounding so badly that he could hardly see straight.
In fact, he saw not one but two halberd tips continually darting his way. He whipped the bow back and forth and backpedaled.
He walked right into a tree, and lost his breath in the surprise. The agile young Bedwyr fell to the side as the cyclopian, thinking him caught, jabbed straight ahead, the wicked halberd tip digging a fair-sized hole in the wood.
Luthien responded with a swing of his own, but he missed and cringed when he heard the bow crack as it struck the tree. He brought it back out in front of him: half of it was hanging by a splinter.
The