The Crimson Shadow

by R. A. Salvatore

  He was clapping his hands, a smile stretching from ear to ear, when Siobhan entered. She noted that he had just draped a cloth over a circular item atop a small pedestal—his crystal ball, she realized.

  “You have seen Luthien,” Siobhan reasoned. “And know now that the rumors of his force are true.”

  Brind’Amour looked at her curiously. “Oh, no, no,” he replied. “Too much fog up there. Too much fog. I think I saw the boy earlier, but it might have been a highlander, or even a reindeer. Too much fog.”

  “Then we cannot confirm—” Siobhan began.

  “Rumors usually hold some measure of truth,” the wizard interjected.

  Siobhan paused and sighed. “We will need to form two sets of tactics,” she decided. “Two plans of battle. One without help from Luthien, and another should he ride in with his thousands.”

  “No need,” Brind’Amour said cryptically.

  Siobhan looked at him unblinkingly, in no mood for the wizard’s games.

  Brind’Amour recognized this and wondered for an instant what might be so troubling the half-elf. “Word of our victory in Caer MacDonald precedes us,” he explained at once, anxious to bring a smile back to the fair Siobhan’s face. “The pennant flying above Dun Caryth is the mountain cross on the green field!”

  It hit Siobhan too unexpectedly and she screwed her face up, trying to decipher what Brind’Amour might be talking about. Gradually, it came clear to her. Brind’Amour had just claimed that the fortress anchoring Malpuissant’s Wall was under the flag of Eriador of old! “The wall is taken?” the half-elf blurted.

  “The wall is ours!” the wizard confirmed, lifting his voice.

  Siobhan couldn’t even speak. How could such a victory have been handed to them?

  “The majority of those living at Dun Caryth and in the various gate towers all along the wall were not cyclopian, nor even Avon citizens, but Eriadorans,” the old wizard explained. “They were servants to the soldiers, mostly, craftsmen and animal handlers, but with easy access to the armories.”

  “They heard of the Crimson Shadow,” Siobhan reasoned.

  Brind’Amour put his arms behind his head and leaned back comfortably against the center pole of his tent. “So it would seem.”

  CHAPTER 22

  EYES FROM AFAR

  HE WAS SO THIN as to appear sickly, skin hanging loosely over bones, eyes deep in dark circles. His once thick brown hair had thinned and grayed considerably, leaving a bald stripe over the top of his head. The rest he combed to the side and out, so that it appeared as if he had little wings behind his ears.

  Frail appearances can be deceiving, though, as was the case with this man. Duke Paragor of Princetown was Greensparrow’s second, the most powerful of the seven remaining dukes. Only Cresis, leader of the cyclopians, and the only duke who was not a wizard, was higher in line for the throne: a purely political decision, and one that Paragor was confident he could reverse should anything ill befall his king.

  Paragor wasn’t thinking much about ascension to the throne this day, however. Events in Eriador were growing increasingly disturbing. Princetown was the closest and the most closely allied of the Avon cities to that rugged northern land, and so Paragor had the highest stakes in the outcome of the budding rebellion in Eriador. Thus this wizard, proficient in the arts of divining, had watched with more than a passing interest. He knew of Belsen’Krieg’s defeat on the fields outside of Montfort; he knew that the Avon fleet had been captured wholesale and sailed north. And he knew of his own failure, Estabrooke, who had been sent north with the intent of keeping the Riders of Eradoch out of the Crimson Shadow’s fold.

  That very morning, a surly Duke Paragor had watched a thousand riders follow the Crimson Shadow into the swelling rebel encampment in Glen Albyn.

  “And all of this with Greensparrow away on holiday in Gascony!” the duke roared at Thowattle, a short and muscular cyclopian with bowed legs, bowed arms, and only one hand, having lost the other and half the forearm as well while feeding one of his own children to a lion in Princetown’s famed zoo. The one-eyed brute had fashioned a metal cap and spike to fit over his limb, but the stump was too sensitive for such a device and so he could not wear it. Even with the loss, Thowattle was the toughest cyclopian in Princetown, unusually smart, and unusually cruel, even for one of his race.

  “They are just Eriadorans,” Thowattle replied, spitting the name derisively.

  Paragor shook his head and ran the fingers of both hands through his wild hair, making it stick out all the farther. “Do not make the same mistake as our king,” the duke cautioned. “He has underestimated our enemy to the north and the breadth of this uprising.”

  “We are the stronger,” Thowattle insisted.

  Paragor didn’t disagree. Even if all of Eriador united against Greensparrow, the armies of Avon would be far superior, and even without the fleet that had been stolen, the Avon navy was larger, and manned with crews more acclimated to fighting from such large ships. But a war now, with many of Avon’s soldiers away in southern Gascony, fighting with the Gascons in their war against the Kingdom of Duree, would be costly, and crossing the mountains or Malpuissant’s Wall, fighting on the Eriadorans’ home ground, would help to balance the scales.

  “Fetch my basin,” Paragor instructed.

  “The one of red iron?” Thowattle asked.

  “Of course,” Paragor snapped, and he sneered openly when Thowattle’s expression turned to doubt. The cyclopian left, though, and returned a moment later carrying the item.

  “You’ve been using this too much,” Thowattle dared to warn.

  Paragor’s eyes narrowed. Imagine a cyclopian scolding him concerning the use of magic!

  “You told me yourself that divining is a dangerous and delicate act,” the cyclopian protested.

  Paragor’s stare did not relent, and the cyclopian shrugged his broad shoulders and fell silent. Paragor would not discipline him for his insolence, and indeed the duke heard the truth in the cyclopian’s words. Divining, sending his eyes and ears out across the miles, was a delicate process. Much could be seen and revealed, but often it was only half truths. Paragor could locate a specific familiar place, or a specific familiar person—in this case, as in the last few, it would be Estabrooke—but such magical spying had its limitations. A real spy or scout collected most of his information before he ever got to the target, and could then use whatever he learned from the target in true context. A wizard’s eye, however, normally went right to the heart, blinded to all the subtle events, often the more important events, surrounding the targeted person or place.

  Divining had its limitations, and its cost, and its trappings. Great magical energy was expended in such a process, and like a drug, the act could become addictive. Often during this process, more questions were formed than answers given, and so the wizard would go back to his crystal ball, or his enchanted basin, and send his eyes and ears out again, and again. Paragor had known of wizards found dead, drained of their very life force, slumped in their chairs before their divining devices.

  But the duke had to go back again to Eriador. He had seen the defeat at Port Charley, the massacre on the fields of Montfort, and the ride of Eradoch, and all of it was inevitably leading his way, to Malpuissant’s Wall, which was under his domain.

  Thowattle placed the basin on a small round table in the duke’s private study, a scarcely furnished and efficient room containing only the table, a large but rather plain desk and chair, a small cabinet, and a wall rack of several hundred compartments. The cyclopian then went to the cabinet and took out a jug of prepared water. He began to pour it into the basin, but it splashed a bit and an angry Paragor pulled the jug from his one hand, slapping him aside.

  Thowattle just shook his ugly head skeptically; he had never seen the duke so flustered.

  Paragor finished filling the basin, then produced a slender knife from under the voluminous folds of his brownish-yellow robes. He began to chant softly, waving one
hand over the basin, then he stabbed his own palm and allowed his blood to drip into the water.

  The chanting continued for many minutes, Paragor slowly lowering his face to within an inch of the bowl, peering deeply into the swirling red waters.

  Peering deeply, watching the forming image . . .

  “An easy victory,” a young man—the Crimson Shadow! Paragor realized by the cape he wore—was saying. He was in a large tent, surrounded by an odd crew: a foppish halfling, an old man that Paragor did not know, and three women, all very different in appearance. One was tall and strong, with hair the color of a rich sunset, another was much smaller of frame—perhaps with the blood of Fairborn—with angular features and long wheat-colored tresses, and the third was a rugged woman, dressed in the furs of a highlander. Paragor knew this one, Kayryn Kulthwain, the woman Estabrooke had beaten to take control of the folk of Eradoch.

  “But this army was up for a fight,” the foppish halfling replied in a thick Gascon accent. “And now we have no fight for them!”

  Paragor didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t let his mind wander at that time. He sent his gaze to the edges of the basin, seeking the object of his divining. There was Estabrooke, seated passively on a stool, resting against the side of the tent. What had happened to so quiet the commanding cavalier? the wizard-duke wondered. The resignation on Estabrooke’s face might be the most unsettling thing of all!

  Gradually Paragor realized that he was meandering from his course. Already he could feel the weight of the magic; his time was short. Near the center of the tent, of the basin, the Crimson Shadow was speaking once more.

  “As the fingers of a hand have the folk of Eriador assembled,” he said, waxing poetic and holding his own hand up in the air. “Come together into a fist.”

  “A fist that has punched King Greensparrow right in the nose,” the old man said. “A solid blow, but have we really hurt him?”

  “Eriador is ours,” the red-haired woman declared.

  “For how long?” the old man asked cynically.

  That set them all back on their heels. “Greensparrow is in Gascony, that much we know,” the old man continued. “And Greensparrow will return.”

  “The plan was yours, I remind you,” the halfling protested.

  “It did not go as planned.”

  “The objective was gained more easily,” the halfling said.

  “But not with the same effect as Oliver’s Bluff,” the old man snapped right back. “We are not done, I fear. Not yet.”

  “What is left?” the halfling asked.

  “Forty-five miles is not so far a march in the spring,” the old man said slyly.

  The image in the divining basin faltered, Paragor’s concentration destroyed by the sudden shock. Blanching white, the skinny wizard-duke fell back from the bowl. Princetown—the upstart fools were talking of marching to Princetown!

  Paragor understood the peril. This was no small force, and Greensparrow had not acted quickly enough. The armies of Avon were not assembled for march and were nowhere near Princetown. And what other fight had the group declared already won?

  Malpuissant’s Wall?

  The skinny duke ran his fingers through his hair again repeatedly. He had to think. He had to sit down in the dark and concentrate. He knew a little, but not enough, and he was tired.

  Such were the limitations, and the cost, of divination.

  “Princetown,” Siobhan reasoned, following Brind’Amour’s logic. “The Jewel of Avon.”

  “The stakes just rose for Oliver’s Bluff,” Brind’Amour confirmed.

  “Greensparrow, he will never expect it, and never believe it,” Oliver said. Then in quieter tones so that only Luthien could hear him clearly, he added, “Because I am standing right here and I do not believe it.”

  “Princetown is isolated,” Brind’Amour explained. “Not another militia of any size within two hundred miles.”

  Siobhan wore a confused expression, half doubting the possibility, half intrigued by it. “They could send another fleet,” she pointed out, “around the wall to cut us off from our home ground.”

  “They could,” Brind’Amour conceded. “But do not underestimate the willingness of those Eriadorans who have not yet joined with us. The folk of Chalmbers, a fair-sized town, are not blind to the events along the mountains and along the wall. Besides,” the old wizard added slyly, rubbing his wrinkled fingers together, “we will strike quickly, within the week.”

  Oliver understood that this might be his one chance to become a part of history, with his name attached to the daring assault. He also understood that the possibility existed that he, and all the rest of them, would be slaughtered on a field south of Eriador. Quite a risk, considering that the original objective of the rebellion (which, in fact, had only begun by accident!) had already been apparently attained. “Princetown?” he asked aloud, drawing attention. “To what point?”

  “To force a truce,” Brind’Amour replied without hesitation. The old wizard didn’t miss the cloud that then crossed Luthien’s face.

  “Did you think to take it all the way?” Brind’Amour scoffed at the young Bedwyr. “Did you think to go all the way into Avon and conquer Carlisle? All of Eriador would have to march south, and we would still be outnumbered more than three to one!”

  Luthien didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what he was thinking or feeling. The completion had come easily—the wall was theirs and, for all practical purposes, Eriador was out from under Greensparrow’s shadow. Just like a snap of Oliver’s green-gauntleted fingers. But for how long? Brind’Amour had asked. It seemed to Luthien then that the fight was far from over, that Greensparrow would come back after them again and again. Could they ever truly win? Perhaps they should take it all the way to Carlisle, Luthien thought, and end the dark shadow that was Greensparrow once and for all time.

  “The common folk of Avon would join with us,” he reasoned, a hint of desperation in his resonant voice. “As have the common folk of Eriador.”

  Brind’Amour began to argue, but Oliver interrupted with a raised hand. “I am schooled in this,” the halfling explained, begging the wizard’s pardon.

  “They would see us as invaders,” Oliver said to Luthien. “And they would defend their homes against us.”

  “Then why is Princetown different?” Luthien asked sharply, not pleased at hearing the obvious truth.

  “Because it is merely Oliver’s Bluff,” the halfling said, and then came the predictable snap of his fingers. “And I want to see the zoo.”

  “Only then do we offer a truce to Avon’s king,” Brind’Amour explained. “With Princetown in our grasp, we’ll have something to barter.” Luthien’s expression was doubtful, and Brind’Amour understood. The young man had grown up on an isolated island, far from the intrigue of the world’s leaders. Luthien was thinking that, if Greensparrow was so powerful, the king could merely march northeast from Carlisle and take Princetown back by force, but what Luthien didn’t understand was the embarrassment factor. The only chance Eriador had of breaking free of Avon was to become such a thorn in Greensparrow’s side, such an embarrassment to him in his dealings with the southern kingdoms, particularly Gascony, that he simply didn’t want to have to bother himself with Eriador anymore. Princetown conquered might just accomplish that; then again, the wizard had to admit, it might not.

  “So there we have it,” Brind’Amour said suddenly, loudly. “We take Princetown and then we offer it back.”

  “After we let the animals go,” Oliver added, drawing amused smiles from all in the tent.

  Simple and logical, it outwardly sounded. But not one of the planners, not Luthien nor Oliver, Katerin nor Siobhan, Kayryn Kulthwain nor even Brind’Amour believed it would be that simple.

  The army came upon Malpuissant’s Wall, among the most impressive structures in all of Avon, the next day. It stood fifty feet high and twenty feet wide, stretching nearly thirty miles from the eastern edge of the Iron Cross all
the way to the Dorsal Sea. Gatehouses had been built every five hundred yards, the most impressive of these being the fortress of Dun Caryth. She reached out from the last sheer wall of the rugged mountains, blending the natural stone into the worked masonry of the wall. Half of Dun Caryth was aboveground, soaring towers and flat-topped walls brimming with catapults and ballistae, and half was below, in tunnels full of supplies and weapons.

  In viewing the place, Luthien came to appreciate just how important this easily won victory had been. If his army had gone against the Praetorian Guards of Dun Caryth, they would have suffered terrible losses, and no siege could have lasted long enough to roust the brutes from the fortress. The uprising had come from within the fortress walls, though, and Dun Caryth, and all of Malpuissant’s Wall, was theirs.

  Their welcome was warm and full of celebration, the Eriadorans all feeling invulnerable, as if Greensparrow’s name was no more than a curse to be hurled at enemies.

  Brind’Amour knew better, but even the wizard could not help but be caught up in the frenzy when the victorious armies came together. And it was good for them, realized the wizard-turned-general: celebration further sealed their alliance and ensured that the less predictable folk, like the Riders of Eradoch, were fully in the fold.

  So they enjoyed that day at the wall, swapped their stories of hard-won victory, and of friends who had given their lives. The army from Caer MacDonald, and from the northern fields, camped on the plain north of Dun Caryth that night.

  Feeling invincible.

  Back in his palace in Princetown, Duke Paragor paced the carpeted floor of his bedchamber. He was tired, his magic expended, but he wanted to call to Greensparrow.