Luthien started to reach for the handle of an inside door, but Oliver stopped him and put a finger to pursed lips. They moved their ears against the wood instead, and could hear a strong baritone voice calling out names—the tax roll, Luthien realized.
They had come this far, but what were they to do now? he wondered. He looked to Oliver, and the halfling nodded in the direction over Luthien’s shoulder. Following the gaze, Luthien noticed that the foyer was not enclosed. Ten feet up the middle of both side walls were openings leading straight in, to concealed corridors that ran south along the front wall of the structure.
Out came the magical grapnel, and up they went. They passed several openings that led onto a ledge encircling the cathedral’s main hall, and came to understand that this corridor was the path used by the building’s caretakers to clean the many statues and stained-glass windows of the place.
They went up a tight stairway, and then up another, and found a passage leading to an arched passageway that overlooked the cathedral’s nave fully fifty feet up from the main area’s floor.
“The triforium,” Oliver explained with a sly wink, apparently believing that they would get a good view of the proceedings in relative safety.
They were fifty feet up from the floor, Luthien noted, and barely halfway to the network of huge vaulting that formed the structure’s incredible roof. Again the young Bedwyr felt tiny and insignificant, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place.
Oliver was a couple of steps ahead of him by then, and turned back, realizing that Luthien wasn’t following.
“Quickly,” the halfling whispered harshly, drawing Luthien back to the business at hand.
They scampered along the back side of the triforium wall. On the front side of the passageway, centering every arch, was a relatively new addition to the cathedral, a man-sized, winged gargoyle, its grotesque and horned head looking down over the ledge, looking down upon the gathering. Oliver eyed the statues with obvious distaste, and Luthien heartily concurred, thinking the gargoyles a wretched stain upon a holy church.
They crept along quietly to the corner of the triforium, where the passageway turned right into the southern transept. Diagonally across the way, Luthien saw the pipes of a gigantic organ, and beneath them the area where the choir had once stood, singing proud praises to God. Now cyclopians milled about in there.
The altar area was still perhaps a hundred feet away, tucked into the center of a semicircular apse at the cathedral’s eastern end. The bulk of this apse was actually in Montfort’s lower section, forming part of the city’s dividing wall.
Luthien’s eyes were first led upward by the sweeping and spiraling designs of the apse, up into the cathedral’s tallest spire, he realized, though from this angle, he could not see more than halfway up the towering structure. He shook his head and looked lower to the great tapestries of the apse, and to the altar.
There, Luthien got his first good look at the infamous Duke Morkney of Montfort. The old wretch sat in a comfortable chair directly behind the altar, wearing red robes and a bored expression.
At a podium at the corner of the apse stood the roll-caller, a fierce-looking man flanked by two of the largest cyclopians Luthien had ever seen. The man read a name deliberately, then paused, waiting for the called taxpayer—a tavern owner in the lower section whom Luthien recognized—to shuffle out of one of the high-backed wooden pews in the nave and amble forward with his offering.
A sour taste filled Luthien’s mouth when the summoned man handed a bag of coins over to a cyclopian. The merchant stood, head bowed, while the bag was emptied onto the altar, its contents quickly counted. The amount was then announced to Morkney, who paused a moment—just to make the merchant sweat, Luthien realized—then waved his arm absently. The merchant verily ran back to his pew, gathered up the two children who had come in with him, and scooted out of the Ministry.
The process was repeated over and over. Most of the taxpayers were allowed to go on their way, but one unfortunate man, an old vendor from a kiosk in the market, apparently had not given enough to suit the greedy duke. Morkney whispered something to the cyclopian at his side, and the man was promptly dragged away. An old woman—his wife, Luthien assumed—leaped up from a pew, wailing in protest.
She was dragged off also.
“Pleasant,” Oliver muttered at Luthien’s side.
About halfway through the tax call, two hours after Luthien and Oliver had found their high perch, Morkney raised one skinny hand. The man at the lectern stepped down and another took his place.
“Prisoners!” this new caller yelled, and a group of cyclopians rose and stepped out from the first pew, pulling the chained men, women, and dwarves along with them.
“There is our savior,” Oliver remarked dryly, noting the bushy-haired dwarf. “Have you any idea of how we might get near to him?”
The obvious sarcasm in Oliver’s tone angered Luthien, but he had no response. To his dismay, it seemed that the halfling was right. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all. He could see at least two-score cyclopians in the cathedral and did not doubt that another two-score were nearby, not counting the ones in the wagons beyond the door of the north transept. That, plus the fact that Morkney was reputedly a powerful wizard, made any plan to spring Shuglin seem utterly ridiculous.
Charges were read and the nine prisoners were given various punishments, various terms of indenture. The four men would accompany a caravan to Princetown—likely to be sold off to the army once they reached the Avon city, Oliver informed Luthien. The three women were sentenced to serve as house workers for various merchants, friends of the duke—Oliver did not have to explain their grim fate. And the dwarves, predictably, were given long terms at hard labor in the mines.
Luthien Bedwyr watched helplessly as Shuglin was pulled away down the north transept and out the side door to a waiting wagon.
The tax call soon began anew, and Oliver and the fuming Luthien made their way back along the triforium to the hidden corridor and down to the ledge overlooking the foyer. They let one released merchant go out, then slipped down into the small narthex. Oliver retrieved his grapnel and slipped it away, then adjusted his veils and motioned for Luthien to lead the way.
The cyclopian guards made some nasty comment as the “merchant” and his virgin daughter stepped between them, but Luthien was hardly listening. He didn’t say a word all the way back to Tiny Alcove, and then paced the apartment like a caged dog.
Oliver, still in his maiden’s garb, remarked that midday was almost upon them and the Dwelf would soon be open, but Luthien gave no indication that he heard.
“There was not a thing you could do!” Oliver finally shouted, hopping up to stand on a chair in Luthien’s pacing path so that he could shout in the man’s face. “Not a thing!”
“They took him to the mines,” the burdened young man remarked, turning back on his heels and ignoring the ranting halfling. “Well, if they took Shuglin to the mines, then I go to the mines.”
“By all the virgins of Avon,” Oliver muttered under his breath, and he sat forcefully down in the chair and pulled the long black hair of his wig over his eyes.
CHAPTER 20
THE VALUE OF A KISS
OLIVER AND LUTHIEN waited for more than an hour, crouched among a tumble of boulders in the rocky foothills just a quarter of a mile outside Montfort’s southern wall, overlooking the narrow trail which led to the mines. Riverdancer and Threadbare, glad to be out of the city, grazed in a small meadow not far away. Oliver had explained that the slaver wagon would not leave the city until the tax calls were completed—in case Morkney found some other “volunteers” who preferred to work in the mines rather than pay their heavy tithes.
Luthien had planned to hit the wagon here, long before it got to the mine; Oliver knew better.
The young Bedwyr’s expression fell considerably when the wagon came bouncing along, escorted by a score of cyclopians riding fierce ponypigs.
�
��Now can we go to the Dwelf?” the weary halfling asked, but from the determined way angry Luthien stormed off to retrieve his mount, Oliver guessed the answer.
They trotted along the road a good distance behind the wagon, but sometimes catching sight of it far ahead on the rocky trail as it came out along an open ledge.
“This is not so smart a thing,” Oliver said many times, but Luthien didn’t reply. Finally, with more than three miles of trail behind them, the halfling stopped Threadbare. Luthien went on for about twenty yards, then turned Riverdancer about and looked back accusingly at his friend.
“The dwarf—” he began, but stopped immediately as Oliver threw his hand up. The halfling sat with his eyes closed, his head tilted back, and it seemed to Luthien that he was sniffing the air.
Threadbare leaped at Oliver’s command, crashed through the brush at the side of the road and disappeared. Luthien eyed Oliver incredulously for just a moment, then heard the rumble of rushing ponypigs not so far up the road.
He had no time to escape to where Oliver had gone! Head down over the horse’s thick mane, Luthien kicked Riverdancer into a dead run, back toward Montfort. A mile passed before he found a place where he could get off the road, and he and his horse skidded into a shallow gully and banged roughly off a stone wall. Luthien dropped from the saddle and grabbed Riverdancer’s bridle, trying to soothe and quiet the nervous beast.
He needn’t have worried, for the cyclopian band passed by at a full gallop, the thunder of their heavy mounts and the empty wagon bouncing behind them burying any other sounds.
After a few deep breaths, Luthien walked Riverdancer back to the road, waited a moment to make sure that all the one-eyes had passed, then galloped back the other way. He found Oliver right where he had left him.
“Is about time,” the halfling complained. “We must get to the dwarf before they bring him to the lower mines. Once he is down there . . .” Oliver didn’t bother finishing the thought, since Luthien was long past him by then.
The mine entrance was little more than an unremarkable hole in the side of a mountain, its sides propped with heavy timbers. The friends tethered their horses far to the side of the trail and crept to a vantage point behind some brush. They saw no cyclopians milling about; saw no movement at all.
“It is not well guarded,” Luthien remarked.
“Why would it be?” Oliver asked him.
Luthien shrugged and started out from their hiding place. Oliver grabbed his arm, and when he looked back, the halfling directed his gaze along the mountain wall to another opening at the right of the mine entrance.
“It could be the barracks,” the halfling whispered. “Or it could be where they keep the prisoners before they send them down.”
Luthien looked from one entrance to the other. “Which one?” he finally asked, turning back to Oliver.
Oliver held his hands out wide and finally pointed to the main mine. “Even if this dwarf, Shuglin, is not in there, that is the way they must get him down.”
Luthien moved up to the wall, Oliver right behind. He put the cowl of his crimson cape low and inched along, pausing at the entrance. The tunnel was dark, very dark, and Luthien had to pause until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Even then, he could hardly make out the shapes within.
He lifted a fold in his cloak and Oliver scooted under, then Luthien inched his way around the corner and into the mine. They went around one bend—a side passage broke off to the right, possibly leading to tunnels within the other mine opening. Further down the passageway they were traveling, though, they saw the flicker of a torch and heard the footsteps of approaching cyclopians.
Into the side passage the friends skittered, taking up a position so they could continue to watch down the tunnel. Luthien had his bow out and assembled in an instant, while Oliver, flat on the floor, peeked around the corner.
The torchlight grew; two cyclopians rounded the next bend, talking lightly. Oliver held two fingers up in the air for Luthien to see, then kept his hand up high, ready to signal the attack.
Luthien drew back his bowstring. The light intensified, as did the sound of heavy cyclopian footsteps. Oliver’s hand snapped down and Luthien leaped by the prone halfling into the tunnel, bow bent and arrow ready to fly.
The cyclopians were barely a dozen feet away, leaping wildly in surprise.
Luthien missed.
He could hardly believe it, but as one of the cyclopians jumped and twisted in fright, its arm waving high, his arrow sliced in below the creature’s armpit, grazing it but doing no real damage.
Luthien stood staring blankly, holding his bow as if it had deceived him. On came the growling cyclopians, and if Oliver hadn’t slid out to intercept, Luthien would have surely been cut down.
Rapier and main gauche whipped in a wild dance, Oliver scoring a wicked hit in the ribs of the closest brute and nicking the second before they even realized he was there.
The wounded cyclopian, weapon arm tight against its side, clubbed at the halfling with its torch. Its companion fell back a step, then came on, throwing curses and waving a heavy club.
Oliver rolled left, back toward the tunnel. Luthien, sword drawn, dove ahead behind the halfling. The club wielder, its bulbous eye following Oliver’s movement, gawked in surprise as the young man’s sword exploded into its chest.
Oliver came up short, halfway through the roll, and fell forward instead, inside the arc of the down-swinging torch. The halfling’s rapier plunged ahead once, and then again, and the cyclopian staggered backward, eyeing little Oliver with sheer disbelief.
Then it fell dead.
Taking only the moment to put out the torch (and for Oliver to ask, “How did you miss?”), the two friends moved on more urgently now. Soon more torchlight loomed up ahead.
The tunnel ended at a ledge forty feet above the floor of a large, roughly oval chamber. Five cyclopians were in here and, to the friends’ relief, two dwarves, including one with a bushy, blue-black beard and a sleeveless leather tunic. Both were shackled at the wrists and ankles, surrounded by their cyclopian captors. The group stood near the opposite end of the chamber in front of a large hole cut into the floor. Suspended above the hole was a block and tackle, with one thick rope going to a cranking mechanism on the chamber’s floor at the side of the hole and two other ropes disappearing beneath the floor.
One cyclopian leaned over the hole, loosely holding the side rope and looking down, while another worked the crank.
Luthien crouched and nocked another arrow, but Oliver looked at him doubtfully, pointing to one side and then the other of the well-lit room. At least three tunnels came into this chamber at the floor level.
Luthien understood the halfling’s concerns. This higher region of the complex was likely for the guards, and those three tunnels, and the one Luthien and Oliver had just come down, might quickly fill with cyclopians at the first sounds of battle.
But Luthien did not miss the significance of the crank. Those two ropes supported a platform, he figured, and once Shuglin and the other dwarf went down, they would be lost to him forever.
The cyclopian leaning over the hole nodded stupidly and called down. The brute was answered by another cyclopian, and then another, not far below the rim.
The first cyclopian jerked suddenly, then fell headlong into the hole. Four other cyclopians, seeing the arrow in their companion’s back, looked across the room and up to the ledge, to see Luthien fire off another arrow, then take a rope from Oliver. The arrow skipped harmlessly off the cranking mechanism, but the cyclopian working it fell back and shrieked.
Oliver, his adhering grapnel set against the ceiling far out from the ledge, jumped onto Luthien’s back and as soon as Luthien packed his folding bow away, the two swung down, crimson and purple capes billowing behind them. Luthien angled the jump toward the crank: the most important target, he figured.
Oliver’s calculations in setting the grapnel were not far off, and Luthien let the halfling down as they came to
the low point of the swing, the halfling falling the last three feet to the floor, landing in a headlong roll, one somersault after another.
Luthien continued on toward the cyclopian near the crank. The young Bedwyr kicked out, trying to knock the brute aside, but he went up too high as he passed, kicking at empty air when the cyclopian ducked. The brute’s distraction cost it dearly, though, for when it looked back down, it saw Oliver, or more specifically the tip of Oliver’s rapier, coming toward it. The fine blade pierced the cyclopian’s belly and sliced upward into its lungs, and it fell aside, gasping for breath that would not come.
Luthien, spinning in tight circles from the momentum of his kick, swung right over the shaft. As he had figured, he saw a large platform holding half a dozen yelling cyclopians fifteen feet below the rim. But the far edge of the hole was still out of reach when his momentum played out and the rope began its inevitable swing the other way—where three armed cyclopians waited.
Luthien wisely jumped free, flailing his arms wildly. He banged his shin hard against the lip of the shaft and nearly fell in. With a groan and a roll, he cleared the drop and regained his footing, drawing his sword. With a quick look, he rushed to the far side of the rim. One of the cyclopians went for the halfling; the others shoved past the dwarves and went to the corner to meet the circling Luthien.
And all of them were screaming for help, screaming that “the Crimson Shadow” was upon them!
“I see the biggest came for me,” Oliver remarked, and he wasn’t idly bantering. The brute facing him was among the largest and ugliest cyclopians Oliver had ever seen. Worse still, the cyclopian wore heavy padded armor—Oliver doubted that his rapier could even get through it—and wielded a huge double-bladed battle-ax.
Down came the weapon in an overhead chop, and Oliver darted forward, rolling right through the brute’s widespread legs. He looked back to see sparks flying as the weapon took a chunk of stone out of the floor.
The Crimson Shadow Page 23