Within the hour, the eager young man selected messengers, a dozen men he sent out from the city with instructions to ride to the northern tips of the Iron Cross, separate, and find high, conspicuous perches, and then read loudly from parchments Luthien gave to each of them, a note that the young man had written for the old wizard.
“He will hear,” Luthien assured Oliver when the two saw the dozen riders off.
Oliver wasn’t sure, or that the reclusive Brind’Amour would answer the call if he did hear. But Oliver did understand that Luthien, weary of the business of governing, had to believe that relief was on the way, and so the halfling nodded his agreement.
“So bids Luthien Bedwyr, present Lord of Caer MacDonald, which was Montfort,” the young man called out, standing very still, very formal and tall, on a flat-topped hillock.
Some distance away, another man slipped off his horse and unrolled a parchment similarly inscribed. “To the wizard Brind’Amour, friend of those who do not call themselves friends of King Greensparrow . . .”
And so it went that morning in the northernmost reaches of the Iron Cross, with the twelve messengers, two days out from Caer MacDonald, each going his own way to find a spot which seemed appropriate for such a call into the wind.
Brind’Amour woke late that morning, after a refreshing and much-needed rest: twelve solid hours of slumber. He felt strong, despite his recent journeys into the realm of magic, always a taxing thing. He did not know yet that Viscount Aubrey was dead, slain by the arrow he had delivered into Siobhan’s quiver, for he had not peered into his crystal ball in many days.
He still wasn’t certain of Luthien and the budding revolt, of how long Montfort could hold out against the army that would soon sail up the coast, or about his own role in all of this. Perhaps this was all just a prelude, he had told himself the night before as he crawled into his bed. Perhaps this rumbling in Eriador would soon be quieted, but would not be forgotten, and in a few decades . . .
Yes, the old wizard had decided. In a few decades. It seemed the safer course, the wiser choice. Let the tiny rebellion play itself out. Luthien would be killed or forced to flee, but the young Bedwyr had done his part. Oh, yes, the young warrior from Isle Bedwydrin would be remembered fondly in the years to come, and the next time Eriador decided to test the strength of Avon’s hold, Luthien’s name would be held up beside that of Bruce MacDonald. And Oliver’s, too, and perhaps that would inspire some help from Gascony.
Yes, to wait was the wiser choice.
When first he woke, feeling lighthearted, almost jovial, Brind’Amour told himself that he was happy because he was secure now with his decision to stay out of the fight and let it play out to the bitter end. He had chosen the safe road and could justify his inaction by looking at the greater potential for Eriador’s future. He had done well in giving Luthien the cape; Luthien had done well in putting it to use. They had all done well, and though Greensparrow would not likely grow old—the man had lived for several centuries already—he might become bored with it all. After twenty years, Greensparrow’s grip had already loosened somewhat on Eriador, else there never could have been such a rebellion in Montfort, and who could guess what the next few decades would bring? But the people of Eriador would never forget this one moment and would crystallize it, capture it as a shining flicker of hope, frozen in time, the legend growing with each retelling.
The old wizard went to cook his breakfast full of euphoria, full of energy and hope. He might do a bit more, perhaps when the battle was renewed in Montfort. Maybe he could find a way to aid Luthien, just to add to the legend. Greensparrow’s army would no doubt regain the city, but perhaps Luthien could take on that ugly brute Belsen’Krieg and bring him to a smashing end.
“Yes,” the wizard said, congratulating himself. He flicked his wrist, snapping the skillet and sending a pancake spinning into the air.
He heard his name and froze in place, and the pancake flopped over the side of the skillet and fell to the floor.
He heard it again.
Brind’Amour hustled down the passageways of his cavern home, into the room he used for his magic. He heard his name again, and then again, and each time he heard it, he tried to move faster, but only bumbled about.
He thought it was Greensparrow come calling, or one of the king’s lesser wizards, or perhaps even a demon. Had he erred in sending his sight out to the palace in Carlisle? Had Greensparrow postponed his announced vacation in Gascony to deal first with troublesome Brind’Amour?
Finally, the old wizard got the thick cloth off of his crystal ball, put the item on the desk in front of him, and calmed himself enough to look into its depths.
Brind’Amour sighed loudly, so very relieved when he learned that the call was not from a wizard but from a mere man, apparently a messenger.
Relief turned to anger as Brind’Amour continued to seek and he came to know that there were several men calling for him.
“Fool!” Brind’Amour grumbled at Luthien as soon as he realized exactly what was going on. “Daring fool,” he whispered. This was not Montfort; these lands were still in the hands of cyclopians and others loyal to Greensparrow. No open revolt had come, at least not as far as Brind’Amour knew.
And to speak Brind’Amour’s name so clearly, so loudly, where Greensparrow’s ears might hear! If the king of Avon realized that Brind’Amour was somehow connected to the revolt in Montfort, if he knew that Brind’Amour was even awake from his centuries-long sleep, then his eyes would surely focus more closely on Eriador; he would not go to vacation in Gascony and would turn all of his attention north instead. The cause would be crushed.
The cause.
For a long, long time, Brind’Amour, ever cautious, had tried to convince himself that the cause was not so important, that the fight in Montfort was just a prelude to what might happen many decades down the road. But now, fearing that all of the rebellion was in jeopardy, considering the deep feelings rushing through him, he had to wonder if he had been fooling himself. He might justify letting this rebellion die in Montfort, but only for a short while. When it was done, when the blood had washed from the fields and the city’s walls, Brind’Amour would lament the return of Greensparrow, the opportunity for freedom—for freedom now—lost.
Whatever course he now considered, Brind’Amour knew that he had to silence those silly boys with their silly scrolls. He felt strong indeed this morning and discovered that he dearly wanted to test his magic.
The wizard moved to the side of his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a huge, black leather-bound book, gently opening it. Then he began to chant, falling into the archaic runes depicted on the pages, falling deeper into the realm of magic than he had gone for nearly four hundred years.
The twelve men on their twelve hills had been reading and rereading their scrolls for more than two hours. But their instructions had been to read on from sunrise to sunset, day after day, until their call was answered.
Now their call was answered, but not in any way they, or Luthien, had anticipated.
A sudden black cloud rolled over the peaks of the Iron Cross, south of the readers. The blackest of clouds, a ball of midnight against the blue sky. A stiff wind kicked up, ruffling the parchments.
All twelve of the men held stubborn, loyal to Luthien and convinced of the importance of their mission.
On came the cloud, dark and ominous, blocking out the sun, except for twelve tiny holes in the blackness, twelve specific points that caught the rays of day and focused them through a myriad of ice crystals.
One by one, those holes released the focused ray of light under the cloud, and each of those beams, guided by a wizard looking into a crystal ball in a cave not so far away, found its mark, shooting down from the heavens to strike unerringly at the unfurled parchments.
The brittle paper ignited and burned, and one by one, the readers dropped the useless remnants and ran to their nearby mounts. One by one, they emerged from the foothills at a full gallop. Some
linked up, but those who had charged out first did not stop and look back for their companions.
In the cave, Brind’Amour settled back and let the crystal ball go dark. Only a few minutes earlier he had felt refreshed and full of vigor, but now he was tired and old once more.
“Foolish boy,” he muttered under his breath, but he found that he did not believe the words. Luthien’s judgment in sending out callers might have been amiss, but the young man’s heart was true. Could Brind’Amour say the same for himself? He thought again of the uprising, of its scale and of its importance, of his own insistence that this was just a prelude.
Was he taking the safe route or the easy one?
CHAPTER 7
THE CRIMSON SHADOW
COULD WE NOT HAVE GONE in the lower door?” Oliver asked, thoroughly cold and miserable and with still more than a hundred feet of climbing looming before him.
“The door is blocked,” Luthien whispered, his mouth close to Oliver’s ear, the cowl of his crimson cape covering not only his head but the halfling’s as well. “You did not have to come.”
“I did not want to lose my rope,” the stubborn halfling replied.
They were scaling the eastern wall of the Ministry, more than halfway up the tallest tower. The night air was not so cold, but the wind was stiff this high up, biting at them and threatening to shake them free. Luthien huddled tight and checked the fastenings of his magical cape. He couldn’t have it blowing open up here, leaving him and Oliver exposed halfway up the wall!
He had been wearing his cape daily since the rebellion began, for it was the symbol that the common folk of the city had rallied behind. The Crimson Shadow, the legend of old come to life to lead them to freedom. But the cape was much more than a showpiece. Cloistered within its protective magics, the cape tight about him and the cowl pulled low, Luthien was less than a shadow, or merely a shadow blended into other shadows—for all practical measures, completely invisible. He had only used the cape in this camouflaging manner a couple of times during the weeks of fighting to go over the wall and scout out enemy positions. He had thought of trying to find Aubrey, to kill the man in his house, but Siobhan had talked him out of that course, convincing him that the bumbling viscount was, in reality, a blessing to the rebels.
This time, though, Luthien would not be talked out of his plan; in fact, he had told no one except Oliver of his intentions.
So here they were, in the dark of night, almost up the Ministry’s tallest wall. There were cyclopians posted up there, they both knew, but the brutes were likely huddled close around a fire. What would they be on watch against, after all? They could not see the movements of men on the streets below, and they certainly did not expect anyone to come up and join them!
Oliver’s last throw had been good, heaving the magical grapnel up to the end of the rope, but after climbing the fifty feet to the puckered ball, the companions found few places to set themselves. There were no windows this high up on the tower, and the stones had been worn smooth by the incessant wind.
Luthien hooked his fingers tight into a crack, his feet barely holding to a narrow perch. “Hurry,” he bade his companion.
Oliver looked up at him and sighed. The halfling, his feet against the wall, was tucked in tight against Luthien’s belly—the only thing holding Oliver aloft was Luthien. Oliver fumbled with the rope, trying to loop it so that he could fling it up the remaining fifty feet, all the way to the tower’s lip.
“Hurry,” Luthien said more urgently, and Oliver understood that the young man’s hold was not so good. Muttering a curse in his native Gascon tongue, the halfling reached out and tossed the magical grapnel as high as he could. It caught fast, no more than twenty feet above them.
Again came that whispered Gascon curse, but Luthien dismissed it, for he saw something that the halfling did not.
Oliver quieted and held on tight to Luthien, who took up the rope and climbed only a few feet, coming to a stop atop a jutting stone.
“Make the next throw the last throw,” Luthien whispered, planting himself firmly.
Oliver tugged three times on the rope, the signal for the grapnel to loosen. It slipped down silently and Oliver reeled it in. Now, since Luthien had solid footing, so did Oliver, and the halfling took his time and measured his throw.
Perfect: the grapnel hit the wall with the slightest of sounds just a foot below the tower’s lip.
Again Oliver grabbed on and Luthien took up the rope, ready to climb. Oliver grabbed his wrist, though, and when Luthien paused, he, too, heard the movement up above.
Luthien ducked low under the protective cape, sheltering himself and Oliver. After a long moment, the young Bedwyr dared to look up and saw the silhouette of a cyclopian peering over the wall down at him.
Luthien thought the game was up, but the brute made no move and no sound, gave no indication at all that it had seen the companions.
“Nothing,” the cyclopian grumbled, and walked away from the rim, back to the warmth of the fire.
Oliver and Luthien shared a sigh, and then the young Bedwyr hauled them both up the rope to the tower’s lip.
They heard the cyclopians—three, at least—about a dozen feet away.
Oliver’s head came over the lip first, and he confirmed the number and the distance. Luck was with the halfling, then, for he noted, too, the movement of a fourth brute, milling about on the landing just a few stairs down from the tower’s top.
Oliver signaled his intent to Luthien, and then, like a weasel slipping along a riverbank, the halfling picked his way along the top of the wall, around and over the battlements without a sound.
Luthien silently counted; Oliver had asked for a count of fifty. That completed, the young Bedwyr pulled himself up to the tower’s lip, peering at the three brutes huddled about their small fire. Luthien slid up to sit on the wall, gently rolled his legs over, and put a hand to his sword’s hilt. He would have to strike fast and hard and could only hope that Oliver would take care of the one by the stairs—and hopefully, there was only one at the stairs!
No time for those thoughts now, Luthien scolded himself. They were three hundred feet up the tower and fully committed. He slipped down off the wall, took a deep breath as he set his feet firmly, then charged, drawing his blade.
Blind-Striker hit the first cyclopian where it crouched, slashing diagonally across the back of the brute’s shoulder, severing the backbone. The cyclopian fell without a sound, and Luthien whipped the sword across as the second leaped up, spinning to face him. His blade got the creature through the chest—two dead—but snagged on a rib and would not immediately come free at Luthien’s desperate tug.
The third cyclopian did not charge, but turned and fled for the stairs. It jerked weirdly halfway there, then stopped altogether, went to its knees, and fell over on its back, dead. Luthien noted Oliver’s main gauche embedded deeply in its chest, a perfect throw.
Oliver came out of the stairwell and casually stepped over and retrieved his thrown weapon. “What were they eating?” the halfling inquired, walking past the kill toward the small fire. He picked up a stick, a chunk of cooking mutton on its other end.
“Ah, so fine,” the halfling said, delighted, and sat down.
A few moments went by before Oliver looked up to see Luthien staring at him incredulously. “Do hurry,” the halfling bade the young man.
“You are not coming?” Luthien asked.
“I said I would get you up the tower,” Oliver replied, and went back to the mutton feast.
Luthien chuckled. He pulled off his pack and dropped another silken cord, this one as long as the tower was tall, at Oliver’s feet. “Do prepare the descent,” he bade the halfling.
Oliver, face deep in the mutton, waved him away. “Your business will take longer than mine,” he assured Luthien.
Luthien snickered again and started away. It made sense of course, that he should go down alone. Once inside the Ministry, he would have to move quickly, and he could not d
o that with Oliver tucked under the folds of his cape.
He found the fourth cyclopian, dead of a rapier thrust, on the landing just below the tower level. An involuntary shudder coursed Luthien’s spine as he recognized how efficient his little friend could be. All for the good cause, he reminded himself, and started down the longer, curving stair. He met no resistance all the three hundred steps to the floor, and to his relief found that the door at the bottom of the stair, along the curving wall of the cathedral’s eastern apse, was ajar.
Luthien peered into the vast nave. A few torches burned; he heard the snores of dozens of cyclopians stretched out on the many benches. Only a few of the brutes were up, but they were in groups, talking and keeping a halfhearted watch.
They were confident, Luthien realized. The cyclopians were convinced that the rebels wouldn’t accept the losses they would no doubt suffer if they attacked the fortified Ministry. A good sign.
Luthien came out of the door and crept among the shadows, silent and invisible. He noted more cyclopians milling about on the triforium ledges, but they, too, were not paying much attention. Luthien went right, to the north, and scouted out the transept. The doors down there were heavily barricaded, as expected, and a group of cyclopians sat in a circle before them, apparently gambling.
They were bored and they were weary—and soon they would have nothing to eat.
Luthien thought of going all around the transept, back into the nave and down to the west. He changed his mind and went back to the apse instead, then around the semicircle and into the southern transept.
Halfway down, he found what he was looking for: a huge pile of foodstuffs. The young Bedwyr smiled wickedly and moved in close. He took out a small black box, which Shuglin had designed for him, and then six small pouches, filled with a black powder that the dwarfs used in their mining. He considered the pile for a few moments, placing the pouches strategically. He set two between the three kegs of water he found on one side of the pile, probably the only drinking water the brutes had.
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