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 their tall horses loomed above the human’s shorter animal. Then the lance swept around in an arc, the emblazoned shield thrust upward, and the warhorse reared high, directly between its opponents.
Dwarves and golden horses seemed to fly in all directions, ending with resounding splashes on both sides of the bridge, and the knight resumed his position. “I did that properly, too,” his hollow-sounding voice called to Cale. “In all modesty, I am really quite good at what I do.”
It took a while to get Flint Cokeras and Shard Feldspar back on dry ground. When all were accounted for, the dwarves huddled together for a moment, then separated and began unpacking the gear from their saddles. On the bridge, the knight waited patiently. Beyond him, the kender danced up and down the riverbank, trying to see what was going on.
Cale’s companions rummaged through packs and came up with delving tools, a pick and shovel, and a finely made light winch fitted with a length of good Thoradin twist cable.
While Gran Molden stood guard with a loaded sling, the others went to work at the foot of the bridge. Within moments they had a sizeable hole dug alongside the log butt and were fitting their winch to the timber.
“What are you doing over there?” the knight called, sounding puzzled.
They ignored him. While Flint played out cable from the winch, Cale carried its end downstream and spliced a loop around the trunk of a sturdy tree. He returned, thrust prybars through the winch sockets, and three strong dwarves put their backs to the task of reeling in cable.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the timber bridge shuddered, and the knight shouted, “You can’t do that!”
By then, though, they had. The entire bridge tilted, slid into the freshly dug hole alongside, and knight and horse disappeared into the river. For long seconds there was no sign of them, then a horse head bobbed to the surface downstream, and an unarmored head with flowing red hair surfaced near it.
Repacking their goods, Cale and his companions climbed aboard their horses and rode in stately procession across the slanting bridge to the far bank, where a delighted kender was clapping, dancing around, and calling encouragement to the man trying to follow his horse out of the water downstream.
“You did it!” the kender burbled to Cale Greeneye. “You actually made it across!”
“In no particular modesty,” Cale told him, “we are very good at what we do, too.”
The man had gained the shore. Without his armor, which he had left somewhere beneath the water, he looked thoroughly human and thoroughly drenched.
“Bring him up here,” Cale Greeneye ordered. “I want to find out about that ‘debt of service’ business.” He looked around, remembering his missing spur. “Where did that kender go?”
Castomel Springheel was nowhere in sight. His sharp ears had caught the sound of distant drums, and he was on his curious way to see where the sound came from.
16
The arrival of the Hylar had transformed the quiet little valley into a bustling, busy place. There were dwarves everywhere: dwarves at work straightening the tipped bridge; dwarves making fires and setting up lean-tos; dwarves tending stock, unpacking provisions, and scouting sentry posts; dwarves on fold-out ladders grooming dozens of the huge, gold-and-white horses; dwarves with nets and hooks retrieving arms and armor from the rushing stream; dwarf women tending dwarf children; dwarf foragers beginning a harvest of hay and wild grains from the fields above the stream; and a very old dwarf with a crutch, who muttered dourly to himself as he padded around here and there, trying to find a quiet place to rest.