Dragon King The

by R. A. Salvatore

  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.

  Ethan nodded, and seemed appreciative of that fact. “But I never went to the south,” he replied. “Gahris commanded me to go to Port Charley, then to sail to Carlisle, where I would be given a rank of minor importance in the Avon army and sent to the Kingdom of Duree.”

  “To battle beside the Gascon army in their war,” Luthien put in, for he knew well the tale.

  Ethan nodded. “To battle, and likely to die, in that distant kingdom. But I would not accept that banishment and so chose one of my own instead.”

  “With the Huegoths?” Luthien was incredulous.

  Ethan shook his head and smiled. “Land’s End,” he corrected. “I went south from Bedwydrin for a while, then turned east, through MacDonald’s Swath. My destination became Gybi, where I paid handsomely for transport, in secret, to the Isle of Colonsey. I believed that I could live out my life quietly in Land’s End. They ask few questions there.”

  “But the Huegoths came and crushed the settlement,” Luthien accused, and his voice turned grim as he spoke of the probable deaths of many Eriadorans.

  Ethan shook his head and stopped his brother’s errant reasoning. “Land’s End remains intact to this day,” Ethan replied. “Not a single man or woman of that settlement has b
een injured or captured.”

  “Then how?”

  “My boat never got there, for it was swamped in a storm,” Ethan explained. “The Huegoths pulled me from the sea; chance alone put them in my path, and it was simple chance, simple good fortune, that the captain of the longship was Torin Rogar.”

  Luthien rested back on his heels and spent a long moment digesting the story. “Good fortune for you,” he said. “And for Eriador, it would seem.”

  “I am pleased by what you have told me of our Eriador,” Ethan said, unstrapping Blind-Striker and handing it back to Luthien. “And I am proud of you, Luthien Bedwyr. It is right that you should wear the sword of family Bedwyr.” Ethan’s face grew grim and uncompromising. “But understand that I am Huegoth now,” he said, “and not of your family. Deliver your treaty to my king or we—and I—will fight you.”

  Luthien knew that the words were a promise, not a threat, and he believed that promise.

  POLITICS

  Incredibly, less than two weeks after leaving the Huegoth encampment in Colonsey, Luthien and Oliver had the great Ministry of Caer MacDonald in sight. They had covered hundreds of miles, by sea and by land, and Riverdancer and Threadbare were haggard. Katerin had not returned with them; rather, she had gone south from Gybi by longship, with Ethan and Brother Jamesis, headed for the Eriadoran port city of Chalmbers.

  “The journey back should be easier,” Luthien remarked to his exhausted companion. “We shall use Brind’Amour’s magics to cross the land. Perhaps our king will accompany us, wishing to sign the treaty personally with Asmund of Isenland.”

  Oliver grimaced at the young Bedwyr’s continued optimism. All along the journey, the halfling had tried to calm Luthien down, had tried to temper that bubbly optimism with some very real obstacles that Luthien apparently was not counting on. So far, Oliver had tried to be subtle, and apparently it wasn’t working.

  He pulled Threadbare up short, and Luthien did likewise with Riverdancer, sidling up to the halfling, following Oliver’s gaze to the great cathedral. He figured that Oliver just wanted a moment with the spectacular view of this city that had become their home.

  “Brind’Amour will not agree,” Oliver said bluntly.

  Luthien nearly toppled from his mount, sat staring open-mouthed at his diminutive companion.

  “My bumpkin-type friend,” the halfling explained, “there is a little matter of a treaty.”

  Luthien thought Oliver was referring to the pending treaty with Asmund. Was the halfling saying that Brind’Amour would never agree to terms with the Huegoths? The young Bedwyr moved to argue the logic, but Oliver merely rolled his eyes and gave Threadbare a kick, and the skinny yellow pony trotted on.

  The two friends stood before Brind’Amour in the audience room at the Ministry within the hour, with Luthien happily spilling the details of the Huegoth advance, and the potential for a truce. The old wizard who was Eriador’s king beamed at the news that the Huegoths were not in league with Greensparrow, but that wide smile gradually diminished, and Brind’Amour spent more time looking at worldly Oliver than at Luthien, as the young Bedwyr’s full tale began to unfold.

  “And all we need do is deliver the treaty within the month to King Asmund,” Luthien finished, oblivious to the grim mood about him. “And Greensparrow be damned!”

  If the young Bedwyr expected Brind’Amour to turn cartwheels in joy, he was sorely disappointed. The king of Eriador eased back in his great chair, rubbing his white beard, his eyes staring into empty air.

  “Should I pen a draft for you?” Luthien asked hopefully, though he was beginning to catch on that something was surely amiss here.

  Brind’Amour looked at him directly. “If you do, you must also pen a fitting explanation to our Gascon allies,” he replied.

  Luthien didn’t seem to understand. He looked to Oliver, who only shrugged and reminded him again that there was a treaty that might get in the way.

  Suddenly Luthien understood that Oliver hadn’t been doubting the potential treaty between Brind’Amour and Asmund, but about a treaty that had already been signed.

  “Nothing is ever as easy as a bumpkin-type would think,” the halfling said dryly.

  Luthien decided that he would have to speak to Oliver about that bumpkin reference, but this was neither the time nor the place.

  “There is a matter of a treaty signed by myself and the duchess of Mannington, acting on King Greensparrow’s behalf,” Brind’Amour clarified, taking up the halfling’s argument. “We are not at war with Avon, and our truce does not include a provision for acceptable invasions.”

  The sarcasm stung Luthien profoundly. He understood the pragmatism of it all, of course, but in his mind Greensparrow had already broken the treaty many times over. “Sougles’s Glen,” he said grimly. “And Menster. Have you forgotten?”

  Brind’Amour came forward at once, eyes gleaming. “I have not!” he yelled, the sheer strength of his voice forcing Luthien back a step. The old wizard calmed at once and eased himself to a straight posture. “Cyclopian raids, both,” Brind’Amour said.

  “But we know that Greensparrow was behind them,” Luthien replied, full of determination, full of frustrated rage.

  “What is known and what can be proven are oft two very different things,” Oliver remarked.

  “True enough,” agreed the king. “And on strictly moral grounds, I agree with you,” he said to Luthien. “I have no discomfort with the morality of launching a war, with Huegoth allies, against the king of Avon. Politically, though, we would be inviting complete disaster. Any attack on Avon would not rest well with the lords of Gascony, for it would disrupt their trade with both our kingdoms and make a mockery of their aid to us, playing the role of victims, in the previous war. They would not help us this time, I fear. They might even offer some warships to Greensparrow, that the war, and particularly the Huegoth threat, be quickly ended.”

  Luthien clenched his fists at his sides. He looked to Oliver, who only shrugged, and then back to Brind’Amour, though he was so angry that he was viewing a wall of red more than any distinct forms. “If we do not ally with Asmund,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “then we will be forced into a war with the Huegoths.”

  Brind’Amour agreed with the assessment, nodding and then giving a small chuckle. “The ultimate irony,” he replied. “Might it be that Eriador will join in common cause with Avon against the Huegoths?”

  Luthien rocked back on his heels.

  “Oh, yes,” Brind’Amour assured him. “While you were on the road, King Greensparrow’s emissary reached out to me, begging alliance against the troublesome barbarians of Isenland.”

  “But what of Menster?” Luthien protested. “And what of Sougles’s Glen, and all the other massacres perpetrated by—”

  “By the one-eyes,” Oliver interrupted. “My pardon,” he quickly added, seeing Luthien’s dangerous glower, “I am but playing the role of the Gascon ambassador.”

  “Cyclopians prompted by Greensparrow!” Luthien growled back at him.

  “You know that and I know that,” Oliver replied, “but the Gascons, they are another matter.”

  “Oliver plays the role well,” Brind’Amour remarked.

  Luthien sighed deeply, trying to calm his rising ire.

  “Greensparrow has prompted the raids,” the Eriadoran king said to soothe him.

  “Greensparrow will never accept Eriador free,” Luthien replied.

  “So be it,” said Brind’Amour. “We will deal with him as we can. While you were gone, our forces were not idle. Siobhan and the Cutters have been working with King Bellick dan Burso’s dwarfs, and have discovered the whereabouts of a large cyclopian encampment.”

  “So we ally with Greensparrow against the Huegoths at sea, while we fight against his allies in the mountains,” Luthien said distastefully.

  “I told you that you would not so much enjoy politics,” Oliver remarked.

  “As of now, I don’t know what we shall do,”
Brind’Amour answered. “But there are many considerations to every action when one speaks for an entire kingdom.”

  “Surely we will attack the cyclopians,” Luthien said.

  “That we shall,” Brind’Amour was glad to assure him. “I do not believe that our Gascon allies would protest any war between Eriador and the cyclopians.”

  “One-eyes, ptooey!” spat Oliver. “In Gascony, we consider a cyclopian eye an archery target.”

  Luthien was far from satisfied, but he realized that he was involved in something much bigger than his personal desires. He would have to be satisfied; at least he might soon get the chance to exact revenge for the folk of Menster.

  But there was something deeper tugging at his sensibilities as he and Oliver exited the audience room in search of Siobhan. He had just over two weeks remaining to deliver the treaty or Eriador would be at war once more with the Huegoths—and Luthien would be at war with his own brother.

  Oliver kept beside his sullen friend for the rest of the day, from a long quiet stay at the Dwelf to a walk along the city’s outer wall. Luthien wasn’t speaking much and Oliver didn’t press him, figuring that the young man had to get through all the shocks—Ethan siding with the Huegoths and the reality of political intrigue—on his own.

  Shortly before sunset, with news that Siobhan would be back in the city that night, Luthien’s face brightened suddenly. In looking at him, Oliver understood that the young man had come up with yet another plan. Hopefully a better-informed course of action than his previous ideas, Oliver prayed.

  “Do you think that Brind’Amour would ally with the Huegoths if Greensparrow was first to break the treaty?” Luthien asked.

  Oliver shrugged noncommittaly. “I can think of better allies than slavers,” he said. “But if the gain was the potential downfall of King Greensparrow, then I think he might be convinced.” Oliver eyed Luthien, and particularly, Luthien’s wry smile, suspiciously for a short while. “You have an idea to entice Greensparrow into action against Eriador?” the halfling asked. “You think you can get him to break the treaty?”