Finally, each of them breathing heavily, the opponents broke apart, Luthien cutting Riverdancer fast to the side. He could not win this way, he knew, for the mounted battle was too frenzied for him to find a crease in the knight's armor. The Dark Knight apparently knew it, too, for he swung his mount about, aiming for Luthien.

"Pass!" he demanded, and on came the thundering charge once more.

Luthien bent low and whispered into Riverdancer's ear. "I need you now," he said to the horse. "Be strong and forgive me." Off they charged, kicking up the sod, angling for another close pass.

Luthien hunched his shoulders close to Riverdancer's strong neck and turned his mount right into the path of the charging opponent. The Dark Knight straightened in surprise, his horse breaking stride.

Exactly what Luthien had prayed for.

The young Bedwyr did not slow at all. Riverdancer plowed headlong into the Dark Knight's steed, bowling the horse over so that it practically sat on the ground before it was able to regain any semblance of balance. The armored knight held on dearly, accepting the hit as Luthien thrust Blind-Striker Blind-Striker around the tumbling horse's neck. around the tumbling horse's neck.

Luthien, knocked dizzy from the impact of the powerful steeds, held on dearly as well. He focused squarely on his target, had known what he needed to do before he had ever begun the charge. His one attack, the sword thrust, was not for the knight's breastplate-what would be the point?-or even for the slits in the man's helmet, which were out of reach as the knight leaned defensively backward. Luthien swung at the man's fingers, so that he dropped the reins. As the staggering Riverdancer shuffled to the side, Luthien looped those reins about his sword and tugged with all his strength, and the knight's horse lurched violently.

Luthien nearly overbalanced and tumbled off the other side of his horse, but held on stubbornly, looking back just in time to see the Dark Knight unceremoniously slide off the rear flank of his mount, thudding hard to the ground.

Luthien slipped off Riverdancer and nearly fell facedown as the world continued to spin about him. He staggered and stumbled his way to his supine opponent, the man trying futilely to rise in his heavy armor. The flail whipped across, catching the young Bedwyr off balance.

Luthien's eyes widened in surprise and he hurled himself backward, slipping in the mud to fall unceremoniously to the ground.

The knight rolled and managed to get up as Luthien rose, the two facing off.

"Your attack was immoral," the Dark Knight declared. "You struck my horse!"

"My horse struck your horse," Luthien corrected indignantly.

"There are rules of combat!"

"There are rules of survival!" Luthien countered. "How am I to fight one armored such as yourself? What risks do you take?"

"That is the advantage of station," the Dark Knight roared. "Come on, then, sans equine sans equine."

Sitting not far away, Oliver cocked his head curiously at the armored man's demeanor. That last statement was a Gascon saying, reserved for nobles mostly, meaning competition, not always combat, without horses. Who was this knight? Oliver wondered.

Luthien approached cautiously. He could hit the man a dozen times to little effect, but one swipe of the flail would cave in his skull, or reduce his ribs to little bits. And his right arm was hanging loose, still feeling the sting from the lance cut. The two circled and launched measured strikes for a few passes, then the Dark Knight roared and came in hard, whipping his flail across and back.

The man couldn't move so well in that encumbering armor, though, and Luthien easily danced aside, swatting the knight on the back of the shoulder. The knight turned and tried to follow, but the agile Luthien was always a step ahead of him, tap-tapping tap-tapping with with Blind-Striker Blind-Striker, as much to prod the man on as to inflict any real damage. Already the young Bedwyr could hear the man panting inside that heavy suit.

"An honorable man would stand and fight!" the Dark Knight proclaimed.

"A stupid man would stand and die," Luthien countered. "You speak of honor, yet you hide behind a wall of metal! You see my face, yet I see no more than dark orbs through the slits of a helm!"

That gave the man pause, for he stopped abruptly and lowered his flail. "A point well taken," he said, and to Luthien's amazement, he began to unstrap his heavy helmet. He pulled it off and Luthien grew even more amazed, for the man was much older than Luthien had expected, probably three times the young Bedwyr's age! His face was rugged and wide, skin leathery and creased by deep lines. His gray hair was cropped short, but he wore a huge mustache, also gray, a line of bushy hair from mid-cheek to mid-cheek. His eyes, dark brown, were large and wide-spaced, with a thick nose between, and only his chin was narrow, jutting forward proudly.

The Dark Knight tossed his helmet to the ground. "Now," he said, "fight me fairly, young upstart."

He charged once more, and this time, Luthien met the rush, Blind-Striker Blind-Striker whipping across, its angle and timing perfect to intercept the flail across the chain, halfway between the ball and the handle. The ball wrapped tightly around Luthien's sword. He tugged hard, thinking to take the weapon from the man, but the Dark Knight proved incredibly strong, and though Luthien had the advantage of angle, the older man held on. whipping across, its angle and timing perfect to intercept the flail across the chain, halfway between the ball and the handle. The ball wrapped tightly around Luthien's sword. He tugged hard, thinking to take the weapon from the man, but the Dark Knight proved incredibly strong, and though Luthien had the advantage of angle, the older man held on.

Luthien felt the throb in his shoulder, but forgot about it as the Dark Knight's armored left hand came across in a vicious hook, slamming Luthien right in the face. Warm blood rolled down from Luthien's nose and over his lip, tasting salty-sweet.

The young Bedwyr staggered back a step, then wisely threw himself forward before the man could land a second weighted punch. The Dark Knight did snap his knee up, and while Luthien was wise enough to turn one leg in to protect his groin, he took the hit on the thigh.

Luthien responded by jamming his open palm up under the Dark Knight's chin, breaking the clench. The young Bedwyr leaped back, tugging and scrambling frantically, pulling hard on the knot the flail's chain had become.

He got punched 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 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 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 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 Blind-Striker at the man's throat. 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?" "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. 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 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. 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 that," Oliver corrected.

"You implied implied it!" Luthien growled. it!" Luthien growled.

Oliver blew a deep breath and shrugged. "I changed my mind."

Their conversation came to an abrupt end a moment later when the ring of mounted highlanders suddenly converged, huge horsemen and wicked weapons, two-headed spears and axes with blades the size of a large man's chest, pinning the pair helplessly together.

Luthien cleared his throat. "Good sir Estabrooke," he began. "Might you talk to your . . . friends?"

CHAPTER 21.

GLEN A ALBYN.

EXCITED WHISPERS CIRCULATED among the Eriadoran soldiers as they set their camp in the wide vale of Glen Albyn, northeast of the Iron Cross. They had nearly crossed the glen; Dun Caryth, the anchoring point of Malpuissant's Wall, was not yet in sight, but the mountain that harbored the fortress certainly was. The battle was no more than two days away, might even be fought on the next afternoon. among the Eriadoran soldiers as they set their camp in the wide vale of Glen Albyn, northeast of the Iron Cross. They had nearly crossed the glen; Dun Caryth, the anchoring point of Malpuissant's Wall, was not yet in sight, but the mountain that harbored the fortress certainly was. The battle was no more than two days away, might even be fought on the next afternoon.

The Eriadorans believed that they could take Dun Caryth and all the wall with just the force from Caer MacDonald, the five thousand that had settled into Glen Albyn. Their hopes soared higher, for the whispers spoke of more allies. Luthien was on the way back to them, it was said, along with a thousand fierce riders of Eradoch and a like number of farmers-turned-warriors from the smaller hamlets of central Eriador. All the land had risen against Greensparrow, so it seemed to the soldiers as they set their camp that night.

Too many issues swarmed Katerin's thoughts and she could not sleep. Eriador had risen and would fight for freedom, or for death. It was something the proud woman of Hale had dreamed of since her youngest days, and yet, with the possibility of this fantasy looming right before her eyes, Katerin felt the joy tainted.

She had lost Luthien. She heard the whispers of friends talking behind her back, and though there was no malice, only sympathy in their quiet words, that stung Katerin all the more. She knew that Luthien and Siobhan were lovers, had known it for some time, but only now, with the rebellion nearing its end and the prospects of life after the war, did Katerin come to appreciate the weight of that truth.

She walked alone, quietly, past the guards and the groups huddled about campfires, many engaged in games of chance, or in soft songs from Eriador of old. Some took notice of her passing and waved, smiling broadly, but they understood from Katerin's expression that she meant to be alone this night, and so they granted her the desired solitude. Katerin walked right out of the northern perimeter of the encampment, out into the dark fields where the stars seemed closer suddenly, and there she stood alone with her thoughts.

The war was barely six months old, would likely not last another six months, and what, then, would be left for Katerin O'Hale? Win or lose against Avon, it seemed to Katerin that life without Luthien would not be complete. She had traveled nearly two hundred miles to be with him, and had gone nearly two hundred more on missions, including this march, for his army and his cause, and now it seemed to the young woman that all her efforts would be for naught.

Her sniffle was the only sound, and that was taken from her by the wind.

She was surprised, and yet, deep in her heart, she was not, when a slender form, much smaller than her own, walked quietly up beside her.

Katerin didn't know what to say. She had come out here to think of what could not be, to come to terms with the realities of her life, and here was Siobhan, apparently following her right out of the camp.

Siobhan!

Katerin didn't look at her, couldn't look at her. She sniffled again and cleared her throat, then turned abruptly back for the encampment.

"How very stubborn and very stupid you will be if you let the man who loves you, and the man whom you love, get away," Siobhan said suddenly, stopping Katerin dead in her tracks.

The red-haired woman wheeled about, eyeing her adversary skeptically. How stupid will you be to let me have him? How stupid will you be to let me have him? she wondered, but she did not speak, too confused by what Siobhan might be hinting at. she wondered, but she did not speak, too confused by what Siobhan might be hinting at.

Siobhan tossed her long and lustrous wheat-colored tresses over her shoulder, looked up at the stars, and then back at Katerin. "He is not the first man I have loved," she said.

Katerin could not hide the pain on her face at hearing the confirmation of their passion. She had known it was true, but in her heart had held out some last vestige of hope.

"And he will not be the last," Siobhan went on. Her gaze drifted back up to the stars, and Katerin didn't hate her quite so much in that moment, recognizing the sincere pain that had washed over her fair, angular features. "I will never forget Luthien Bedwyr," the half-elf said, her voice barely a whisper. "Nor you, Katerin O'Hale, and when you are both buried deep in the earth, I, young still by the measures of my race, will try to visit your graves, or at least to pause and remember."

She turned back to Katerin, who stood, mouth agape. Tears rimmed Siobhan's green eyes; Katerin could see the glistening lines that had crossed the half-elf's high cheekbones.

"Yes," Siobhan continued, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the warm breeze and tasting the first subtle scents of the coming spring. "I will mark this very night," she explained. "The smells and the sights, the warmth of the air, the world reawakening, and when in the centuries to come I feel a night such as this, it will remind me of Luthien and Katerin, the two lovers, the folk of legend."

Katerin stared at her, not knowing what to make of the unexpected speech and uncharacteristic openness.

Siobhan locked that stare with her own and firmed her jaw. "It should pain you that Luthien and I have loved," the half-elf said bluntly, catching Katerin off her guard, turning her emotions over once again. "And yet," Siobhan continued unabashedly, "I take some of the credit, much of the credit, for the person the young Luthien Bedwyr has become. This person can understand love now, and he can look at Katerin O'Hale through the eyes of a man, not the starry orbs of a lustful boy."

Katerin looked away, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Deny it if you will," Siobhan said, moving about so that the young woman had to look at her. "Let your foolish pride encase your heart in coldness if that is what you must do. But know that Luthien Bedwyr loves you, only you, and know that I am no threat."

Siobhan smiled warmly then, a necessary ending, and walked away, leaving Katerin alone with her thoughts, alone with the night.

Luthien and Oliver were camped on the fields south of Bronegan that night, part of a force nearly half the size of the army in Glen Albyn. After the victory over the Dark Knight, Estabrooke had indeed talked to his "friends" as Luthien had asked, giving Oliver and Luthien some breathing room and some time.

Noble to the core, Estabrooke promptly and openly ceded to Luthien his earned leadership position over the thousand assembled riders. Luthien eyed the man with concern as he did so, understanding that such a transition would not be easy.

Kayryn Kulthwain, a huge and fierce woman, the finest rider in all of Eradoch and the one Estabrooke had defeated in open challenge just a few days before, immediately reclaimed that position. By the ancient codes of the riders, the title could not be passed from outsider to outsider.

Luthien, son of an eorl and somewhat trained in the matters of etiquette, understood the basic traditions of Eradoch. Estabrooke had ascended to a position of leadership by defeating the leader of the gathered rulers, but that position would have never been more than temporary.

Very temporary. Estabrooke was an outsider, and as soon as the highlanders could have determined a proper order of challenge, the Dark Knight would have been forced to battle and win against every one of the riders, one after another. And if any of them had defeated Estabrooke on the field, there would have been no mercy.

"Is Kayryn Kulthwain the rightful leader?" Luthien had asked those around him.

"By deed and by blood," one man answered, and others bobbed their heads in agreement.

"I came not to Eradoch to lead you," Luthien assured them all, "but to ask for your alliance. To ask that you join with me and my folk of Caer MacDonald against Greensparrow, who is not our king."

The men and women of Eradoch were not a complicated folk. Their lives were straightforward and honest, following a narrow set of precepts, basic guidelines that ensured their survival and their honor. It was all Luthien had to say. When he turned back for Bronegan, the riders of Eradoch were not behind him, they were beside him-and it seemed to both Luthien and Oliver that the fiercely independent folk of Eradoch had wanted to join all along, but had been bound otherwise by the Dark Knight.

Now the two friends, the knight, and the riders were camped south of Bronegan, along with hundreds of farmers who had taken up arms for the cause, eager to join once they learned that Eradoch had come into the alliance.

Luthien sat with Oliver long into the night, the halfling wrapped in blankets and working furiously to clean his marvelous clothing, and to polish his belt buckle and his rapier. Oliver had put his purple breeches too close to the fire to dry, and Luthien watched in silent amusement as the foppish trousers began to smolder.

The halfling shrieked when he noticed, yanking the breeches away and putting a nasty stare on his content friend.

"I meant to tell you," Luthien offered innocently.

"But you did not!" Oliver stated.

Luthien shrugged, much as Oliver had shrugged earlier that same day, after Luthien's painful encounter with the Dark Knight. "I changed my mind," the young Bedwyr said, imitating his diminutive friend's Gascon accent.

Oliver picked up a stick and heaved it at him, but Luthien got his arm up in time to deflect it-though the movement pained his injured shoulder. He laughed and groaned at the same time.

As if on cue, Estabrooke, seeming only half the size of the imposing Dark Knight without his full suit of armor, walked into the light of their fire, carrying a small bowl. "A salve," he explained, moving near to Luthien. "Should take the sting out of your wounds and clean them. Allow them to heal properly, you see." Like a protective mother, the older man bent over Luthien, scooping up a handful of the smelly gray salve.

Luthien tilted his head so that his thick hair shifted away from the shoulder, giving the older man the opportunity to apply the stuff. All the while Luthien and Oliver watched the man closely, still not quite understanding why Estabrooke, First of the Sixth Cavaliers, was even in Eriador at that time. Luthien hadn't broached the subject up to now, for the day had been one of rushed travel and impromptu alliances. The young man could not wait any longer.

"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly.

Estabrooke's look was incredulous. His lips pursed, sending his huge mustache out so far as to tickle the tip of his nose. "I am a Lord Protector," he answered, as though that should explain everything.