Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,206

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