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.
Ethan seemed more upset by it all than did Asmund. He, too, could not deny the truth of Asmund’s perception. When Blind-Striker had gone into that crevice, Luthien had gained a seemingly insurmountable advantage, and then Luthien had fallen. In retrospect, Ethan had to admit that his brother, so balanced and so in command of his movements, could not have slipped at that critical moment.
Asmund spent a long while studying the pair. “You are the only Eriadorans I have come to know in heart,” he said finally. “Brothers of a fine stock, I admit.”
“Despite my intended slip?” Luthien dared to ask, and he relaxed more than a little when Asmund laughed again.
“Well done!” the king roared. “Had you beaten Ethan, your gain would have been your life and the lives of your two closest companions. And the sword, no small thing.”
“But the price would have been too high,” Luthien insisted. “For then our parley would have been ended, and Ethan’s standing in your eyes might have been lessened.”
“Would you die for Eriador?” Asmund asked.
“Of course.”
“For Ethan, who we now name Vinndalf?”
“Of course.”
The simple way Luthien answered struck Ethan profoundly, forced him to think back on his days in Dun Varna with his younger brother, a boy, then a man, he had always loved. Now Ethan was truly wounded, by his own actions, by the notion that he might have killed Luthien in their duel. How could he have ever let his rage get so much control over him?
“Would Ethan die for you?” Asmund asked.
“Yes, he would,” Luthien replied, not even bothering to look to his brother for confirmation.
Asmund roared with laughter again. “I like you, Luthien Bedwyr, and I respect you, as I respect your brother.”
“No more his brother,” Ethan remarked before he could consider the words.
“Always,” Asmund corrected. “If you were not his brother still, you would have claimed victory with your sword and not your mouth.”
Ethan lowered his gaze.
“And I would have struck you dead!” Asmund yelled, coming forward, startling both Ethan and Luthien. The king calmed quickly and moved back into his chair. “When we earlier spoke, you claimed that we were not enemies,” he prompted to Luthien.
“We are not,” Luthien insisted. “Eriadorans fight Huegoths only when Huegoths attack Eriador. But there is a greater evil than any enmity between our peoples, I say, a stain upon the land—”
Asmund patted his hand in the empty air to stop the speech before Luthien could get into the flow. “You need not convince me of the foulness of Avon’s king,” the Huegoth explained. “Your brother has told me of Greensparrow and I have witnessed his wickedness. The plague that swept Eriador was not confined to your borders.”
“Isenland?” Luthien asked breathlessly.
Asmund shook his head. “It never reached our shores because those afflicted at sea daren’t ever return,” he explained. “Our priests discovered the source of the plague, and ever since, the name of Greensparrow has been a cursed thing.
“You were the best friend of Garth Rogar,” the king said suddenly, changing the subject and catching Luthien off guard. “And Torin Rogar is among my closest of friends.”
This was going quite well, Luthien dared to hope. He was certain that he, Oliver, and Katerin would be granted their freedom; now he wanted to take things to the next level.
“Garth Rogar was the only Huegoth I came to know in heart,” he said. “Representative of a fine stock, I say!”
Again Asmund bellowed with laughter.
“We are not your enemy,” Luthien said determinedly, drawing the king into a more serious mode.
“So you say,” he remarked, leaning forward in his chair. “And is Greensparrow your enemy?”
Luthien realized that he was moving into uncharted ground here. His gut instinct told him to yell out “Yes,” but formally, such a proclamation to a foreign king could turn into serious trouble.
“You hinted at an alliance between our peoples to wage war on Greensparrow,” Asmund went on. “Such a treaty might be welcomed.”
Luthien was at once hopeful and tentative. He wanted to respond, to promise, but he could not. Not yet.
Asmund watched his every movement: the way his hands clenched at his side, the way he started to say something, then bit back the words. “Go to your King Brind’Amour, Luthien Bedwyr,” the Huegoth leader said. “Deliver to me within the month a formal treaty naming Greensparrow as our common enemy.” Asmund sat back, smiling wryly. “We have come for war, in the name of our God and by his will,” he proclaimed, a not-so-subtle reminder to Luthien that he was dealing with a fierce people here. “And so we shall fight. Deliver your treaty or our longships will lay waste to your eastern coast, as we had planned.”
Luthien wanted to respond to that challenge as well, to counter the threat with the promise of many Eriadoran warships to defend against the Huegoths. Wisely, he let it pass. “A month?” he asked skeptically. “I can hardly get to Caer MacDonald and back within the month. A week to Gybi—”
“Three days in a longship,” Asmund corrected.
“And ten days of hard riding,” Luthien added, trying not to think of the suffering the galley slaves would surely know in delivering him so far, so fast.
“I will send your brother to Gybi to serve as emissary,” Asmund conceded.
“Send him to Chalmbers, directly west of here,” Luthien asked. “A shorter ride on my return from Caer MacDonald.”
Asmund nodded. “A month, Luthien Bedwyr, and not a day more!”
Luthien was out of arguments.
With that, Asmund dismissed him and Ethan, who was charged with making the arrangements to deliver Luthien, Katerin, Oliver, and Brother Jamesis back to the Eriadoran mainland. The other fifty Eriadorans were to remain as prisoners, but Luthien did manage to get a promise that they would not be mistreated and would be released if and when the treaty was delivered.
Within the hour, the ship was ready to depart. Luthien’s three companions were on board, but the young Bedwyr lingered behind, needing a private moment with his brother.
Ethan seemed truly uncomfortable, embarrassed by the entire situation, of his choices and of his role in the Huegoth raids.
“I did not know,” he admitted. “I thought that all was as it had been, that Greensparrow still ruled in Eriador.”
“An apology?” Luthien asked.
“An explanation,” Ethan replied. “And nothing more. I do not control the actions of my Huegoth brothers. Far from it. They only tolerate me because I have shown skill and courage, and because of the tale of Garth Rogar.”
“I did go south to find you,” Luthien said.