He spotted the depression of a window a bit above him and to his left.
“You are so very brave,” he whispered to himself, and he brought his legs up under him and stood out from the wall. Slowly, he walked himself to the right, then, when he figured that he had the rope stretched far enough, he half ran, half flew back to the left, like a pendulum. Diving at the end of his swing, he just managed to hook the fingers of one hand over the lip of the window, and with some effort, he wriggled himself onto the ledge.
Oliver grumbled as he considered the barrier before him. He could break through the stained glass, but the window opening was crossed by curving metal that would certainly bar his entrance to the tower.
The grumbling halfling glanced all about, noticed that a crowd was gathering down below, many pointing up his way and calling out to their compatriots. In the distance, Oliver could see a force of Praetorian Guards making their way along the avenues, coming to quell the rioting in the cathedral, no doubt.
The halfling shook his head and straightened his hat, then gave three quick tugs to release the grapnel. He might be able to set the magical thing below him and get down the tower in time to escape, he realized, but to his own amazement, the halfling found himself swinging the item up instead, higher on the wall and near to another window.
Bound by friendship, Oliver was soon climbing, to the continuing shouts of the crowd below.
“Sometimes I do not think that having a friend is a good thing,” the halfling muttered, but on he went, determinedly.
Inside the cathedral, the riot had turned into a rout. Many cyclopians were dead and the remaining brutes were scattered and under cover, but the crowd could not stand against Morkney’s horrifying undead brigade and the wicked gargoyles. The Cutters worked to herd the frantic people now, to put them together that they might bull their way to an entrance.
All that mattered to the rioters at this point was escape.
The cyclopians seemed to understand, the gargoyles, too, and whichever way the mob went, barriers were thrown up in their path.
And the horrid undead monsters dogged their every step, pulling down those who were not fast enough to dodge the clawing, bony hands.
A primal scream of outrage accompanied Luthien’s bold charge. The young Bedwyr wanted only to strike down this foul beast, caring not at all for his own safety. Two clawed hands reached out to grasp him as he came in, but he worked his sword magnificently, slapping one and then the other, drawing oozing gashes on both.
Luthien ducked his shoulder and bore in, slashing, even kicking, at the huge monster.
The demon apparently understood the danger of this one’s fury, for Praehotec’s leathery wings began to flap, lifting the creature from the tower.
“No!” Luthien protested. He wasn’t even thinking of the dangers of letting Praehotec out of his sword’s range; he was simply enraged at the thought that the murderous monster might escape. He jumped up at the beast, sword leading, accepting the inevitable clawing hit on his back as he came in close.
He felt no pain and didn’t even know that he was bleeding. All that Luthien knew was anger, pure red anger, and all of his strength and concentration followed his sword thrust, plunging the weapon deep into Praehotec’s belly. Smoking greenish goo poured from the wound, covering Luthien’s arm, and the stubborn young Bedwyr roared and whipped the sword back and forth, trying to disembowel the beast. He looked Praehotec in the eye as he cut and saw again that slight wavering, an indication that the demon was not so secure in the wizard’s material form.
Praehotec’s powerful arm slammed down on his shoulder, and suddenly, Luthien was kneeling on the stone once more, dazed. Up lifted the demon, wings wide over Luthien like an eagle crowning its helpless prey.
From somewhere far away, the young Bedwyr heard a voice—Siobhan’s voice.
“You ugly bastard!” the half-elf growled, and she let fly another arrow.
Praehotec saw it coming, all the way up to the instant it drove into the beast’s reptilian eye.
Siobhan! Luthien realized, and instinctively the young Bedwyr braced himself and thrust his sword up above his head.
Praehotec came down hard, impaling itself to the sword’s crosspiece. The demon began to thrash, but then stopped and looked down curiously at Luthien.
And Luthien looked curiously at his sword, its pommel pulsing with the beating of the beast’s great heart.
With a roar that split stone and a violent shudder that snapped the blade at the hilt, Praehotec flung itself back against the parapet.
Siobhan hit it with another arrow, but it didn’t matter. The demon thrashed about; red and green blood and guts poured down the creature.
Luthien stood tall before it, fought away his dizziness and pain and looked into the eyes of the monster he thought defeated.
He recognized the simmering fires a moment too late, tried to dodge as lines of red energy again came from the demon, joining in a single line and blasting out.
Luthien went tumbling across the tower top, and Siobhan once more disappeared from sight, this time to roll all the way to the bottom and land hard on the lower landing, where she lay, groaning and helpless.
Luthien shook his head, trying to remember where he was. By the time he managed to look back across the tower, he saw Praehotec standing tall, laughing wickedly at him.
“You believe that your puny weapons can defeat Praehotec?” the beast bellowed. It reached right into the garish wound in its belly and, laughing all the while, extracted Luthien’s slime-covered blade. “I am Praehotec, who has lived for centuries untold!”
Luthien had no more energy to battle the monster. He was defeated; he knew that, and knew, too, that if Greensparrow had indeed made such allies as Praehotec, as Brind’Amour had claimed, and as Morkney had apparently proven true, then a shadow might indeed soon cover all of Eriador.
Luthien struggled to his knees. He wanted to die with dignity, at least. He put one foot under him, but paused and stared hard at the monster.
“No!” Praehotec growled. The demon wasn’t looking at Luthien; it was looking up into the empty air. “The kill is rightfully mine! His flesh is my food!”
“No,” came Duke Morkney’s voice in reply. “The sweet kill is mine!”
Praehotec’s serpentine face trembled, then bulged weirdly, reverting to the face of Duke Morkney. Then it returned to Praehotec, briefly, then back to Duke Morkney.
The struggle continued, and Luthien knew that the opportunity to strike would not last long. He staggered forward a bit, trying to find some weapon, trying to find the strength to attack.
When he glanced back across the tower top, he saw not Praehotec but Duke Morkney’s skinny and naked body, the duke bending low to retrieve his fallen robe.
“You should be dead already,” Morkney said, noticing that Luthien was struggling to stand. “Stubborn fool! Take pride in the fact that you fended off the likes of Praehotec for several minutes. Take pride and lie down and die.”
Luthien almost took the advice. He had never been so weary and wounded, and he did not imagine that death was very far away. Head down, he noticed something then, something that forced him to stand straight once more and forced him to remember the losses he had suffered.
Oliver’s rapier.
To Duke Morkney’s mocking laughter, the young Bedwyr stepped over and picked up the small and slender blade, then stood very still to find his balance and stubbornly rose up tall. He staggered across the tower top, toward his foe.
Morkney was still naked and still laughing as Luthien staggered near, rapier aimed for the duke’s breast.
“Do you believe that I am not capable of defeating you?” the duke asked incredulously. “Do you think that I need Praehotec, or any other demon, to destroy a mere swordsman? I sent the demon away only because I wanted your death to come from my own hands.” With a superior growl, Morkney lifted his bony hands, fingers clawed like an animal, and began to chant.