“I’m pleased to meet you,” the kender said brightly. “And these others?”
With an impatient hiss, Cale gestured. “That’s Mica Rockreave, Gran Molden, and Coal Bellmetal. The three over there are Flint Cokeras, Pim Bouldersfield, and Shard Feldspar. Did you hear what I told you?”
“Plain as day,” Cas nodded. “It may be a pleasure to meet all of you,” — his brows drew together thoughtfully — “but then, of course, it may not. It’s too early to be sure. What kind of dwarves are you?”
“Hylar,” Cale announced proudly.
“Really? Never heard of them. Are you going to try to pass the knight today?”
“If he’s in our way,” Cale assured the little creature. “You say his name is Glendon? What’s the matter with him?”
“You mean, aside from being a human?”
“I mean, why does he want to stop people from crossing the stream? What’s on the other side?”
“Nothing much. It’s about like this side, only it’s the other side instead.”
Cale closed his eyes tightly and counted to seven. Then he asked, as politely as he could, “Why doesn’t he want us to cross his … his berusted bridge?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” the kender assured him. “It’s just that he made a vow. He said he is testing himself. I guess that’s something knights do.”
Shaking his head, Cale Greeneye clambered back aboard Piquin and hauled up his mounting ladder. “Pim,” he said, turning, “you and Coal go back and report what we’ve heard. The rest of us will go down and see about that knight.”
“Oh, good!” Cas Springheel grinned. “I’ll go tell Glendon that you’re coming. He’ll be delighted. There hasn’t been anybody for him to test himself on since those wandering ogres two days ago.” The kender turned and scampered away.
“What ogres?” Cale called after him. “What happened?”
“Nothing much,” the high voice drifted back up the slope. “They didn’t get across.”
“Rust!” Cale muttered. “I should know better than to try to talk to a kender.
“Your what?” Mica Rockreave squinted at him.
“My other spur! I had two of them just a minute ago. Now there’s only one.”
The kender was out of sight by the time the mounted dwarves reached the valley floor, where great, gnarled trees swallowed the path. With drawn blades and loosed shields, they rode into the shadows, their eyes darting around for any sign of danger. But for all its ominous appearance, the grove seemed peaceful enough. Birds of a dozen colors and a hundred voices livened the tops of the trees, and where afternoon sun slanted through breaks in the foliage canopy bright flowers grew.
The path wound downward, the woods spreading and becoming more open. Around a bend Cale led them, then around another, and drew rein. Ahead the forest ended, and brushy slopes led downward to the bank of a rushing stream less than a hundred feet wide at this point. Lying across the stream was a great, gray tree trunk, weathered with age. Its top surface had been hewn level, making a smooth wooden path five feet wide with graded gravel approaches.
But it wasn’t the hewn timber bridge that held the dwarves’ attention. It was the figure atop it. The man — he was apparently human, though not even the slightest part of his face or body was visible — wore an assemblage of oiled chain mail and polished armor that covered him from plumed helm to steel-shod toes, from gantleted hands to plated shins to shrouded breastplate. His cloak and plume were deep blue in color, and the stitchwork device at his breast, like the lacquered emblem on his oval shield, was a red falcon in stoop on a field of gray. Besides his shield, he carried a banded mace at his back, a black-hilted sword at his side, and a long, tapered lance tipped with an iron ball upright in its saddle-boot.
The horse beneath him was almost as heavily — and elaborately — armored as he was, from spiked foreplate to skirts of mail.
As the dwarves reached the bridge approach, the man raised his shield toward them. His voice sounded deep and hollow, resonating from the closed face-plate of his helm. “Turn away!” he ordered. “None may cross here, upon my oath and honor.”
Cale’s glance picked out something else then. On the far bank, just to one side of the bridge, the kender sat grinning, cradling his knees as he watched with bright-eyed interest. The dwarf pointed. “If none may cross, then how about him?”
The man didn’t turn. “That is a kender,” he said. “Kender don’t count.”
“We do, too!” Cas Springheel objected from the far bank. “Some of us do, anyway!”
The man ignored him, his visage fixed stonily on the four mounted dwarves facing him. “Turn away,” he repeated. “None may cross here, upon my oath and …”
“You already said that,” Cale Greeneye snapped. “What is this oath you speak of?”
“My oath,” the knight said. “My oath, upon my honor. I have sworn to hold this bridge.”
“Why?”
For a moment, the man was silent, as though considering a question too preposterous to deserve an answer. Then he said, “Why not? It’s as good a bridge as any.”
“And if we decide to cross?”
“I will oppose your crossing.”
“And if we cross anyway?”
“That is most unlikely.”
“But if we do?”
“Then upon my honor, I would owe you a debt of service.”
“What does that mean?” Mica Rockreave demanded.
“It doesn’t matter what it means,” the knight said, patiently, “for you shall not cross.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Cale Greeneye muttered. He drew his axe, spurred Piquin with his one remaining spur, and crouched in his saddle as the tall horse thundered onto the bridge, straight at the motionless knight.
Cale had no idea what happened next. All he saw was a glimpse of the oval shield rising, the lance tipping downward, and the armored horse turning daintily, quartering to lean toward him. One moment he and Piquin were bearing down on the armored man, and an instant later the two of them, dwarf and horse, tumbled with resounding splashes into the rushing water below the bridge. Cale’s own shield and his axe flew from his grip, and his chest felt as though a Thorin smith had rearranged his ribs with a hammer.
Piquin thrashed about for a moment in the cold water, then got his bearings and headed back to shore, angling downstream on the current. For Cale, it was less simple. Massive and solid as any true dwarf, he went straight to the bottom and felt his boot soles crunch against gravel. He bent his knees and pushed upright as hard as he could, springing from the streambed. His head cleared water for only a second, but it was long enough to gulp in a deep breath before he sank again. Then, half walking and half swimming, he began his submerged journey back to shore.
He was fifty yards downstream when Gran Molden grasped his hand and helped him from the water. Piquin was already there, soaking wet and watching curiously. Cale shook himself, spat water, and cleared his eyes, then turned to glare upstream. The bridge was still there, the armored horse still stood upon it, and the hooded knight still sat his horse, motionless as though nothing had happened. Flint Cokeras and Shard Feldspar sat in their saddles, gaping.
“Rust and tarnish!” Cale snarled, then bent to cough up water. When the spasm passed, he grabbed Piquin’s reins and stormed upstream to the foot of the bridge. Striding to the very butt of the tree-bridge, he faced the stolid knight and demanded, “How did you do that?”
“Properly,” the knight said. “It’s a matter of proper training.”
“Well, we’re still coming across!” Cale raised his hand and sliced downward. “Shard! Flint! Put an end to this!”
Instantly, two powerful dwarven horses thundered past him, their riders wielding shield and blade. Side by side, they filled the narrow bridge. Beyond them, Cale saw the knight dip his lance, saw the shield rise, and saw the armored horse turn slightly and brace itself, as though kneeling. The dwarves hit the obstacle with a crash, and
