“I do think that he hid the one-eyes in the hopes of luring me in!” Oliver exclaimed. He paused for just an instant, stroking his goatee with one of his green-gloved hands.
“Yes, yes,” he went on. “The merchant-type knew I was on the road—this is not the first time I have robbed him at rapier point. I got him outside of Princetown once, I do believe.” He looked up at Luthien, nodding his head. “And of course, the merchant-type would have heard my name in any case. So you may ride with me,” he offered, “for a while. Until we are beyond the traps this merchant-type has no doubt set.”
“You think that the danger is not behind us?”
“I just said that.”
Luthien again hid his smirk, amazed at how the little one had just pumped himself up to be some sort of legendary highwayman. Luthien had never heard of Oliver deBurrows before, though the merchants traveling to his father’s house in Dun Varna often brought tales of thieves along the road.
“I assure you,” Oliver began, but he stopped and looked at Luthien curiously. “You know,” he said, seeming somewhat perturbed, “you really should properly introduce yourself when traveling beside someone you have never met. There are codes of etiquette, particularly for those who would be known as proper highwaymen. Ah well,” he finished with a great sigh, “perhaps you will learn better in your time beside Oliver deBurrows.”
“I am Luthien,” the young Bedwyr shouted quickly, before Oliver could interrupt him once more. He wondered if he should, perhaps, go by an alias. But he couldn’t think of one at that moment, and he really didn’t see the point. “Luthien Bedwyr of Dun Varna. And this is Riverdancer,” he added, giving the horse another pat.
Oliver tipped his hat, then pulled up short on his pony. “Bedwyr?” he asked, as much to himself as to Luthien, as though he wanted to hear the ring of the name again. “Bedwyr. This name is not unknown to me.”
“Gahris Bedwyr is the eorl of Bedwydrin,” Luthien said.
“Ah!” Oliver agreed, pointing one finger up into the air and smiling widely in recognition. That smile went away in an incredulous blink. “Family?”
“Father,” Luthien admitted.
Oliver tried to respond, but nearly choked instead. “And you are out here on the road—for sport!” the halfling reasoned. In Gascony, where Oliver had spent most of his life, it was not uncommon for the rowdy children of nobles to get into all sorts of trouble, including ambushing merchants on the road, knowing that their family connections would keep them free. “Draw your sword, you silly little boy!” the halfling cried, and out whipped his rapier and his main gauche. “I so much do not approve!”
“Oliver!” Luthien replied, swinging Riverdancer about to put some ground between himself and the fuming halfling. “What are you talking about?” As the halfling turned his pony to pursue, Luthien grudgingly drew his weapon.
“You bring disgrace to every reputable highwayman in all the land!” the halfling went on. “What need have you of co-ins and jew-wels?” Threadbare sidled up close to Riverdancer, and the halfling, though he was sitting at only about half Luthien’s height and could barely reach the man’s vital areas, thrust forward his rapier.
Luthien’s sword intercepted the weapon and turned it aside. Oliver countered with a rapid series of thrusts, feints and cuts, even slipping in a deceptive jab with the main gauche.
Skilled Luthien defeated every move, kept his balance perfect and his sword in proper defensive posture.
“But it is a game for the son of an eorl,” Oliver remarked sarcastically. “He is too bored in his daily duties of cowering his subjects.” The thrusts became fiercer still, Oliver apparently going for a kill.
That last line got to Luthien, though, insulted him and insulted his father, who had never acted in such a way. He rocked back in his saddle, letting Oliver play out his fury, then came on with an attack routine of his own, slapping the rapier out wide and swiping his sword across fiercely. Oliver’s main gauche intercepted, and the halfling squealed, thinking that he could send Luthien’s weapon flying, as he had done to the cyclopian.
Luthien was quicker than that brute, and he turned his blade before Oliver could twist the trapping dagger, nearly taking the main gauche from the halfling’s hand and freeing the sword so that it could complete its swing.
Oliver’s great hat fell to the ground, and both the halfling and Luthien knew that Oliver’s head would have still been inside if Luthien had so desired.
A tug on the reins sent Threadbare back several feet, putting some distance between the combatants. “I could be wrong,” the halfling admitted.
“You are wrong,” Luthien answered sternly. “You could find fault with Gahris Bedwyr, that I do not doubt. He does not follow his heart if that course would go against the edicts of King Greensparrow, or the duke of Montfort, or any of the duke’s many emissaries. But on pain of death, never again speak of Gahris as a tyrant!”
“I said I could be wrong,” Oliver replied soberly.
“As for me . . .” Luthien went on, his voice subdued, for he was not sure of how to proceed. What of me? he wondered. What had happened this day? It all seemed a surrealistic blur to the suddenly confused Luthien.
For once, Oliver remained silent and let the young man sort out his thoughts, understanding that whatever Luthien might have to say could be important—both to Oliver and to Luthien.
“I no longer claim any of the rights that accompany the name of Bedwyr,” Luthien said firmly. “I have fled my house, leaving the corpse of a cyclopian guardsman behind. And now I have chosen my course.” He held his sword up before him, letting its fine blade shine in the sun, though it was still a bit stained with the blood of the merchant’s guard. “I am as much an outlaw as are you, Oliver deBurrows,” Luthien proclaimed. “An outlaw in a land ruled by an outlaw king. Thus will my sword swing for justice.”
Oliver raised his own rapier in like salute and outwardly proclaimed his agreement. He thought Luthien a silly little boy, though, who didn’t understand either the rules or the dangers of the road. Justice? Oliver nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Luthien’s sword might swing for justice, but Oliver’s rapier jabbed for profit. Still, the young man was a mighty ally—Oliver couldn’t deny that. And, Oliver mused, lending some credibility to the smile he was showing to Luthien, if justice was truly Luthien’s priority, then more of the profits might fall Oliver’s way.
Suddenly, the highwayhalfling was beginning to think that this arrangement might not be so temporary. “I accept your explanation,” he said. “And I apologize for my too rash actions.” He went to tip his hat again, then realized that it was lying on the ground. Luthien saw it, too, and started to move for it, but Oliver waved him back. Leaning low off the side of his saddle, the halfling tipped his rapier low, slipping the point in under the hat. A flick and twist brought the hat spinning atop the rapier’s tip as Oliver lifted the weapon. He thrust it up, then jerked his rapier away, and the hat dropped in a spin, landing perfectly atop the halfling’s head.
Luthien sat amazed, answering Oliver’s smug smile with a shake of his head.
“But we are not safe on the island, fellow outlaw,” Oliver said, his expression turning serious. “That merchant-type knew me, or of me, and expected me. He was probably on his way to your own father to organize a hunt for Oliver deBurrows.” The halfling paused and snorted. He looked at Luthien and his chuckle became a full-blown laugh.