The Crimson Shadow

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I love this man,” Oliver said, sighing.

  One of the cyclopians charged up to intercept Luthien before he could ready another arrow.

  Luthien shrugged and smiled agreeably, dropping the bow to the roof and whipping out his sword. In came the brute, standing somewhat below the young man, and down snapped Luthien’s blade, diagonally across the cyclopian’s sword.

  Luthien brought his sword back up, turning it as he went so that its tip sailed further ahead, nicking the cyclopian on the cheek. Up came the cyclopian’s blade as well, stubbornly aimed for Luthien’s chest.

  But Luthien was quick enough to bring his sword ringing down on the thrust once again, this time turning his blade under his own arm as he slapped the cyclopian’s sword out to the side. Continuing the subtle twist of the wrist, Luthien straightened his elbow suddenly, snapping the sword tip ahead.

  The cyclopian grimaced and took a quick step back, sliding Luthien’s blade out of its chest. It looked down to the wound, even managed to get a hand up to feel the warmth of its spilling blood, then slumped facedown on the roof.

  The cyclopian remaining against Oliver, wielding only the dagger, used sheer rage to keep the halfling on the defensive. It sliced across, back and forth, and Oliver had to keep hopping up on his toes, sucking in his ample stomach as the blade zipped past. The halfling held his rapier out in front to keep the cyclopian somewhat at arm’s length and kept hurling taunts at the brute, goading it into making a mistake.

  “I know that one-eye is not a proper description,” the halfling said, laughing. “I know that cyclopians have two eyes, and the brown one on their backsides is by far the prettier!”

  The brute howled and whipped its arm above its head, cutting down with the dagger as if it meant to split Oliver down the middle. In stepped the halfling and up came his arms in a cross above his head, catching and cradling the heavy blow, though his little legs nearly buckled under the tremendous weight.

  Oliver spun about to put his back toward his opponent, which further extended the cyclopian’s arm and forced the brute to lean forward. Before the cyclopian could react, Oliver reversed his grip on his main gauche and brought it swinging down, like a pendulum, to rise behind him and move in the general direction of the cyclopian’s groin.

  Up went the squealing cyclopian on its toes and higher, and Oliver aided the momentum by bending at the waist and throwing his weight backward into the brute’s rising shins.

  Then the cyclopian was flying free, turning a half somersault. It hit the cobblestones flat on its back and lay very still.

  “It is not so bad,” Oliver called after it. “While you are down there, you might retrieve your sword!”

  “More are coming,” Luthien started to explain as he joined Oliver by the sack of booty. He understood his point was moot when Oliver reached into the sack, drew out a plate and whipped it sidelong up the roof. Luthien turned about to see the spinning missile shatter against the bridge of a cyclopian’s nose as the beast came over the peak.

  Luthien looked back to Oliver in disbelief.

  “That was an expensive shot,” the halfling admitted with a shrug.

  Then the two were running along the uneven roofs, and when they ran out of rooftops, they descended to the street. They heard the pursuit—so much pursuit—and found themselves surrounded.

  Oliver started for an alcove, but Luthien cut him off. “They will look down there,” the young man explained, and instead, he put his back against the plain wall to the side of the shadowy alcove’s entrance.

  Oliver heard cyclopians turning into the lane all about him and promptly dove under the folds of the cloak.

  As Luthien had predicted, the one-eyes flushed out every alcove in the area, then many ran off, grumbling, while others began checking all the houses and shops nearby. It was a long, long while before Luthien and Oliver found the opportunity to run off again, and they cursed their luck, seeing that the eastern horizon was beginning to glow with the onset of dawn.

  Soon they found cyclopians on their trail again, particularly one large and fast brute that paced them easily. With the rising sun, they couldn’t afford to stop and try to hide again, and they found the situation growing more and more desperate as the stubborn beast on their heels called out directions to its trailing and flanking companions.

  “Turn and shoot it! Turn and shoot it!” Oliver shouted, sounding as winded and exasperated as Luthien had ever heard him. Luthien thought the reasoning sound, except for the fact that he did not have the time to turn around for any kind of a shot.

  Then the city’s dividing wall was in sight across Morkney’s Square, a wide plaza centered by a tremendous fountain and flanked by many craft shops and fine restaurants. The square was quiet in the early light; the only movements were that of a dwarf chipping away at a design on the newly built fountain and a few merchants sweeping their store fronts, or setting up fruit and fish stands.

  The friends ran past the seemingly ambivalent dwarf, Oliver taking the effort to quickly tip his hat to his fellow short-fellow.

  The large cyclopian came running right behind, howling with glee, for it was sure that it could get the little one, at least, before Oliver got over the wall.

  The distracted cyclopian never saw the dwarf’s heavy hammer, only saw the stars exploding behind its suddenly closed eyelid.

  Oliver looked back from the wall, grabbed Luthien and bade him do likewise. They nodded their appreciation to the dwarf, who didn’t acknowledge it, just patiently reeled in his hammer (which was on the end of a long thong) and went back to his work before the other cyclopians flooded the square.

  Back at their apartment, the morning bloom in full, Luthien grumbled considerably about how dangerously close they had come that day, while Oliver, fumbling in his sack, grumbled about how many of the plates and goblets he had broken in their wild flight.

  Luthien eyed him with disbelief. “How could you even think of stealing anything at that time?”

  Oliver looked up from the sack and shot Luthien a wistful smile. “Is that not the fuel of excitement and courage?” he asked, and he went back to his inspection, his frown returning as he pulled a large chip of yet another plate out of the sack.

  The halfling’s mouth turned up into that mischievous smile again a moment later, though, and Luthien eyed him curiously as he reached deeply into his sack.

  Oliver shot Luthien a sly wink and took out the pewter figurine of a halfling warrior.

  CHAPTER 17

  OUTRAGE

  THE FRIENDS SPENT the next few days in or near their apartment, making small excursions to the Dwelf mostly to hear the chatter concerning the mysterious Crimson Shadow. The last daring hit, raiding two shops and taking out several cyclopian guards in the face of an apparent conspiracy of several merchants, had heightened the talk considerably, and Oliver thought it prudent, and Luthien did not disagree, that they lie low for a while.

  Oliver accepted the self-imposed quarantine in high spirits, glad for the rest and thrilled to be a part of the growing legend. Luthien, though, spent most of the days sitting quietly in his chair, brooding. At first, Oliver thought he was just nervous about all the attention, or simply bored, but then the halfling came to understand that Luthien’s sorrows were of the heart.

  “Do not tell me that you are still thinking of her,” Oliver remarked one rare sunny day. The halfling had propped the door half open, letting the remarkably warm September air filter into the dark apartment.

  Luthien blinked curiously when he looked at Oliver, but it didn’t take the young man long to realize that Oliver had seen through his sad frown.

  He looked away quickly, and that nonverbal response told Oliver more than any words ever could.

  “Tragic! Tragic!” the halfling wailed, falling into a chair and sweeping his arm over his eyes dramatically. “Always this is tragic!” His movements shifted the chair, knocking it against a pedestal, and Oliver had to react quickly to catch the pewter halfling
figurine as it started to tumble to the floor.

  “What are you speaking of?” Luthien demanded, not in the mood for any cryptic games.

  “I am speaking of you, you silly boy,” Oliver replied. He paused for a few moments, dusting off the pedestal and replacing his trophy. Then, with no response apparently forthcoming, he turned a serious expression upon Luthien.

  “You have been searching for the meaning of life,” Oliver stated, and Luthien eyed him doubtfully. “I only lament that you choose to find it in the form of a woman.”

  Luthien’s expression became a fierce scowl. He started to respond, started to rise up from his chair, but Oliver waved a hand at him absently and cut him off.

  “Oh, do not deny it,” the halfling said. “I have seen this very thing too many times before. Courtly love, we call it in Gascony.”

  Luthien settled back down in the chair. “I have no idea of what you are talking about,” he assured Oliver, and to emphasize his point, he looked away, looked out the partially opened door.

  “Courtly love,” Oliver said again, firmly. “You have seen this beauty and you are smitten. You are angry now because we have not returned to the market, because you have not had the opportunity to glimpse her beauty again.”

  Luthien bit hard on his lip, but did not have the conviction to deny the words.

  “She is your heart’s queen, and you will fight for her, champion any cause in her name, throw your cloak over a puddle of mud in her path, throw your chest in front of an arrow racing toward her.”

  “I will throw my hand into your face,” Luthien answered seriously.

  “Of course you are embarrassed,” Oliver replied, seeming not at all concerned, “because you know how stupid you sound.” Luthien looked at him directly, an open threat, but still the halfling was undeterred. “You do not even know this woman, this half-elf. She is beautiful, I would not argue, but you have imagined everything, every quality you desire, as part of her, when all you really know is her appearance.”

  Luthien managed a slight chuckle; the halfling was right, he knew. Logically, at least, Luthien was acting ridiculous. But he couldn’t deny his feelings, not in his heart. He had seen the green-eyed half-elf for perhaps a minute, and yet that vision had been with him ever since, in waking hours and dreams alike. Now, discussed openly in the bright air of a shining morning, his obsession sounded ridiculous.

  “You seem to possess a great deal of knowledge on this subject,” Luthien accused, and Oliver’s mouth turned up into a wistful smile. “Personal knowledge,” Luthien ended wryly.

  “Perhaps,” was the strongest admission Oliver would offer.

  They let it go at that, Luthien sitting quietly and Oliver busying himself in rearranging the many trophies they had acquired. Luthien didn’t notice it, but many times that morning, Oliver’s expression would brighten suddenly, as though the halfling was reliving fond memories, or Oliver would grimace in heartfelt pain, as though some of the memories were, perhaps, not so pleasant.

  Sometime later, Oliver tossed his winter coat across Luthien’s lap. “It is ruined!” he wailed and lifted up one sleeve to show Luthien a tear in the fabric.

  Luthien studied the cut carefully. It had been made by something very sharp, he knew, something like Oliver’s main gauche, for instance. The weather had been unseasonably warm the last few days, even after sunset, and as far as Luthien could remember, the halfling had not worn this coat at all. Curious that it should be torn, and curious that Oliver should find that tear now, with the sun bright and the air unseasonably warm.

  “I will throw it out to the greedy children,” the halfling growled, hands on hips and face turned into one of the most profound pouts Luthien had ever witnessed. “Of course, this weather will not hold so warm. Come along, then,” he said, grabbing his lighter cloak and moving for the door. “We must go back to market that I might buy another one.”

  Luthien didn’t have to be asked twice.

  They spent the day in the bustling market, Oliver perusing goods and Luthien, predictably, watching the crowd. The thief of the young man’s heart did not show herself, though.

  “I have found nothing of proper value,” Oliver announced at the end of the day. “There is one merchant-type who will be in a better bargaining mood tomorrow, though. Of this much, I am sure.”

  Luthien’s disappointment vanished, and as the young man followed his halfling friend out of the market, his expression regarding the halfling was truly appreciative. He knew what Oliver was up to, knew that the halfling was truly sympathetic to his feelings. If Luthien had held any doubts that Oliver’s lecture concerning “courtly love” was founded in personal experience, they were gone now.

  They went through a similar routine at the market the next day, breaking for lunch at one of the many food kiosks. Oliver carried on a light conversation, mostly about the shortcomings of merchant-types: winter was near at hand and he had found little luck in reducing any of the prices for warm coats.

  It took the halfling some time to realize that Luthien wasn’t listening to him at all and wasn’t even eating the biscuit he held in his hand. The halfling studied Luthien curiously and understood before he even followed the young man’s fixed stare across the plaza. There stood the half-elven slave girl, along with her merchant master and his entourage.

  Oliver winced when the half-elf looked up from under her wheat-colored tresses, returning Luthien’s stare, even flashing a coy smile the young man’s way. The worldly halfling understood the implications of that response, understood the trials that might soon follow.

  Oliver winced again when the merchant, noticing that his slave had dared to look up without his permission, stepped over and slapped the back of her head.

  The halfling jumped on Luthien before he even started to rise, blurting out a dozen reasons why they would be foolish to go over to the merchant at that time. Fortunately for the halfling, several of the people nearby knew him and Luthien from the Dwelf and quickly came over to help out, recognizing that trouble might be brewing.

  Only when a group of Praetorian Guards came over to investigate did the fiery young Bedwyr calm down.

  “All is well,” Oliver assured the suspicious cyclopians. “My friend, he found a cock’a’roach in his biscuit, but it is gone now, and cock’a’roaches, they do not eat so much.”

  The Praetorian Guards slowly moved away, looking back dangerously with every step.

  When they were out of sight, Luthien burst free of the many hands holding him and stood up—only to find that the merchant and his group had moved along.

  Oliver had to enlist the aid of the helpful men to “convince” Luthien, mostly by dragging him, to go back to the apartment. But after the helpful group had gone, the young Bedwyr stormed about like a caged lion, kicking over chairs and banging his fists on the walls.

  “I really expected much better from you,” Oliver remarked dryly, standing by the pedestal to protect his treasured halfling warrior figurine from the young man’s tirade.

  Luthien leaped across the room to stand right in front of the halfling. “Find out who he is!” the young Bedwyr demanded.

  “Who?” Oliver asked.

  Luthien’s arm flashed forward, snapping up the figurine, and he cocked his arm back as if he meant to throw the statue across the room. The sincerely terrified expression on Oliver’s face told him that the halfling would play no more coy games.

  “Find out who he is and where he lives,” Luthien said calmly.

  “This is not so smart,” Oliver replied, tentatively reaching for the figurine. Luthien jerked his arm up higher, moving the trophy completely out of the little one’s reach.

  “It might even be a trap,” Oliver reasoned. “We have seen that many merchant-types wish us captured. They might suspect that you are the Crimson Shadow, and might have found the perfect bait.”

  “Bait like this?” Luthien replied, indicating the statue.

  “Exactly,” Oliver said cheerily, but
his bright expression quickly descended into gloom when he realized Luthien’s point. The previous danger hadn’t stopped Oliver from lifting the bait from the hook.

  The halfling threw his hands up in defeat. “Lover-types,” he grumbled under his breath, storming out of the apartment and pointedly slamming the door behind him. But Oliver was truly a romantic, and he was smiling again by the time he climbed the stairs back to the street level.

  CHAPTER 18

  NOT SO MUCH A SLAVE

  I CANNOT TALK YOU OUT OF THIS?” Oliver asked when he returned late that afternoon to find Luthien pacing the small apartment anxiously.

  Luthien stopped and fixed a determined stare upon the halfling.

  “Stealing co-ins and jew-wels is one thing,” the halfling went on. “Stealing a slave is something quite different.”

  Luthien didn’t blink.

  Oliver sighed.

  “Stubborn fool,” the halfling lamented. “Very well, then. We are in some luck, it would seem. The merchant-type’s house lies in the northwestern section of town, just south of the road to Port Charley. There are not so many guards up there and the wall has not yet even been completed about these new houses. Lesser merchant-types, mostly. But still they will have guards, and you can be death-sure that, in stealing a slave, you will put Duke Morkney and all of his Praetorian Guards on our tail. When we go . . .”

  “Tonight,” Luthien clarified, and again, the defeated halfling sighed.

  “Then tonight might be our last night in the hospitable city of Montfort,” Oliver explained. “And we will be on the road with winter licking at the backs of our boots.”

  “So be it.”

  “Stubborn fool,” Oliver grumbled, and he moved across the floor to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.