Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,209

again, in the chest, then again, right on his wounded shoulder. He reacted in kind and grimaced at the sudden throbbing in his hand after banging it hard off the Dark Knight’s unyielding breastplate.

A left hook crashed in just under Luthien’s ribs. He ran to the side, throwing his momentum into the tangle of weapons, trying to change the angle, or to push the flail handle back over the older man’s hand, forcing him to let go.

Finally, Blind-Striker slid free of its tangle, so quickly that Luthien skidded right past his opponent and stumbled down to one knee. The Dark Knight turned to follow, whipped the flail in a circular motion over his head. His thought was to seize the moment and attack immediately, but Blind-Striker’s blade was much finer and stronger than the Dark Knight had anticipated, and the flail was an old weapon, as old as its wielder. The iron chain, weakened by age and by the finest blade in all of Eriador, split at one link and the studded ball flew through the air.

Across the way, Threadbare hopped to Oliver’s command, and the halfling deftly lifted his hands, protected by his fine green gauntlets, to basket-catch the object.

The Dark Knight, apparently oblivious to the loss of his weapon, roared and rushed ahead, waving the handle and half a chain. He slowed only upon noticing Luthien’s suddenly amused expression.

“Excuse me, good sir knight,” came the halfling’s call from behind. The Dark Knight turned slowly, to see Oliver dangling the lost flail ball by the end of its broken chain. The knight looked from Oliver to his weapon, his face screwed up with disbelief. Then he saw the horizon suddenly, and then the gray sky, as Luthien kicked his legs out from under him.

The young Bedwyr was atop him, straddling his breastplate, the tip of Blind-Striker at the man’s throat.

“I beg of you,” the Dark Knight began, and Luthien thought it out of character for this one to whine. “Please, good sir, allow me to offer a final prayer to God before you kill me,” the Dark Knight explained. “You have won fairly—I offer no protests, but I ask that I might make my final peace.”

Luthien didn’t know how to react, so surprised to hear such talk from one of Greensparrow’s professed followers. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Of course, of course, my name,” the Dark Knight said. “And I, of course, must know yours before you kill . . .” The man sighed and let that thought go.

“I am Estabrooke of Newcastle,” he declared. “Lord Protector, First of the Sixth Cavaliers.”

Luthien looked over at Oliver, his lips silently mouthing, “First of the Sixth?” The young Bedwyr had heard of the group before, a band of knights dedicated as personal bodyguards of the king of Avon and of the governors of the six major cities in that southern kingdom. Luthien had thought the group disbanded with the arrival of Greensparrow, for the cyclopians now served as Praetorian Guard. Apparently, he thought wrong.

Luthien paused, understanding that he had to consider this matter very carefully. He lifted Blind-Striker away from the knight’s throat and wiped the blood from his face, all the while staring at the curious old man lying supine below him.

“You are a long way from Newcastle,” Luthien said.

The man straightened himself, seemed to regain a bit of his dignity despite his predicament. “I am on a mission,” he declared. “The first for a cavalier since . . .” His face screwed up as he tried to remember. It had indeed been a long time.

“Well, no matter,” Estabrooke said at length. “I have prayed. You may state your name and kill me now.” He took a deep breath and locked his dark brown eyes on Luthien’s cinnamon-colored orbs. “Have at it,” he said matter-of-factly.

Luthien looked all around. Of course he would not kill this man, but he wanted to figure out how his action, or inaction, might be viewed by the rugged highlanders ringing him.

“I never heard the claim of a challenge to the death,” Luthien said, stepping aside and extending his hand. The Dark Knight looked at him skeptically for a moment, then accepted the grasp, and Luthien helped him to his feet.

“I will see to our horses,” Estabrooke offered, walking away as he noticed Oliver’s approach.

Luthien saw the halfling, too, and with the blood still running from his bent nose, he wasn’t very pleased. “You said that you would charge right in,” the young Bedwyr scolded.

“I never said