Oliver dove and rolled back the other way as the cyclopian roared and swung about. Then they were facing each other squarely again, Oliver with his back to the crank and the shaft beyond.
Luthien charged in bravely, daring the odds. These two brutes were also well armored, and they wielded fine swords that accepted the heavy hits of the young Bedwyr’s first flurry and turned his blade aside.
Luthien lunged straight forward; a sword chopped his blade’s tip to the stone, while the other brute thrust ahead, forcing Luthien to twist violently to the side to avoid being impaled. He got his weapon back in line quickly and slapped the stubborn cyclopian’s sword away, then countered viciously.
But the attack was again defeated.
Oliver’s rapier jabbed into the front of the cyclopian’s armor three times in rapid succession, but the blade only bent and would not penetrate. The halfling had hoped to tire the heavy-muscled brute, but it was he who was soon panting, diving this way and that to avoid the mighty battle-ax.
He glanced all about, searching for a new tactic, a chink in the cyclopian’s armor. What he found instead was a ring of keys tagged onto the brute’s belt. Instinctively, the halfling glanced over at Luthien, and continued to watch the young man out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the right moment.
Luthien was hard-pressed but fought back valiantly, fiercely, keeping the cyclopians in place. Looking past his adversaries, he saw the two dwarves untangle themselves from the chain that hooked them together at the ankles, saw them line up, and could guess well enough what they had in mind.
Luthien’s sword snapped left and right, left and right, routines easily defeated, but demanding his opponents’ complete attention.
The charging dwarves hit the cyclopians in the back of the legs, heaving them forward.
Luthien’s sword snapped right, turning down the blade of that brute. The young Bedwyr then spun fast to the left, tucking his shoulder so that the cyclopian would not ram him and so the brute would slip behind him. And Luthien’s sword flashed left, not only defeating the attack of that stumbling cyclopian, but knocking its sword to the stone.
He heard Oliver call out his name and spun around once more, jamming an elbow into the ribs of the cyclopian behind him and knocking the unfortunate brute down the shaft. Then Luthien rushed forward out of the tumbling cyclopian’s desperate reach.
In one fluid motion, Oliver’s rapier darted at his adversary and slipped to the side, through the loop of the key ring. Out to the right went the blade, snapping the keys from the jailor’s belt, then high and back to the left, the key ring slipping free and flying through the air.
Into Luthien Bedwyr’s waiting hand.
Luthien slid down to the floor, knowing the most important shackle to be the one binding the dwarves together. He was lucky—the second key fit—and the lock clicked open, and Luthien jumped back up to meet the remaining cyclopian, its sword back in its hand.
For all the advantage the friends had apparently gained, though, none were breathing easier. Torchlight flickered from two of the side tunnels, and yells and heavy footsteps echoed down one. The soldiers on the platform below the room were not content to sit back and wait, either. A one-eyed face came above the lip, and then another to the side; the brutes were climbing the guide ropes.
The jailor roared to see its keys go flying away and on the monster came, its huge ax thrashing back and forth. Oliver twisted and darted, making no attempt to get a weapon up to block the battle-ax, knowing that either of his blades would be snapped in half or taken from his hand by the sheer force of the jailor’s blows.
The ax chopped down, and Oliver skipped left, near the crank. Up he hopped, atop the spindle and heavy rope. Then he hopped straight up again, desperately tucking his little legs under him as the ax swished across. The powerful cyclopian broke its momentum in mid-swing and curved the ax up high, over its head.
Down it came, and Oliver leaped and rolled to the right. The ax smashed onto the spindle, bit hard into the rope. The dimwitted jailor blinked in amazement as the frayed hemp unraveled and snapped, then watched helplessly as the rope’s severed end soared off toward the block and tackle, and the platform (and a dozen cyclopians) fell away!
“I do thank you,” Oliver remarked.
The jailor roared and swung about, overbalancing with the unbridled strength of the blow. The cyclopian never came close to hitting the halfling, though, for Oliver was on his merry way back toward the crank even as the ax came across the other way. Up again, Oliver poked straight out, his rapier’s tip scoring a hit into the cyclopian’s big eye.
The blinded jailor slashed wildly, this way and that, banging his ax off the stone, off the crank. Oliver tumbled and rolled, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle (as long as the ax didn’t get too near to him!), and gradually, by calling out taunts, he managed to get the jailor near the edge of the hole.
On a nod from Oliver, Shuglin barreled into the backside of the jailor, launching the brute over the side.
“Should’ve kept the ax,” the dwarf grumbled as the jailor, and the battle-ax, plummeted from sight.
One on one, Luthien had little trouble in parrying the vicious strokes of his cyclopian adversary. He let the one-eye play out the rage of its initial attack routine and gradually turned the tide against it, setting it on its heels with one cunning thrust after another.
Understanding that it could not win, the beast, with typical cyclopian bravery, turned and fled—to join its companions who were then entering the chamber from the side passages.
And so the forces faced off for several tense seconds, the cyclopian ranks swelling to a dozen or more. Oliver looked back into the shaft doubtfully, for it dropped out of sight into the gloom and he did not even have his grapnel and line. Luthien managed to get the shackles off of Shuglin, then went to work on the other dwarf, while Shuglin ran over and retrieved the sword from the first cyclopian Oliver had killed.
Still the cyclopians did not advance, and Luthien understood that they were allowing their enemies to prepare themselves only because they expected more reinforcements to enter the room.
“We must do something,” Oliver reasoned, apparently having the same grim thoughts.
Luthien slipped his sword in its scabbard and took out his bow, popping it open, pinning it, and setting an arrow in one fluid motion. The cyclopians understood then what this man with the curious stick was doing, and they fumbled all over themselves trying to get out of harm’s way.
Luthien shot one in the neck, and it went down screaming. The others screamed, too, but they did not run for cover. Rather, they charged before Luthien could set another arrow.
“That was not what I had in mind,” Oliver remarked dryly.
In the ensuing tumult, the desperate companions did not hear the twang of bowstrings, and all four of them looked on curiously as several of the charging brutes lurched weirdly and tumbled to the stone. Seeing arrows protruding from their backs, the friends and the cyclopians looked back to the room’s ledge and saw a handful of slender archers—elves, probably—their hands moving in a blur as they continued to rain death on the cyclopians.
The one-eyes scrambled and fled, many running with one or two arrows sticking from them. In response, arrows and spears came whistling out of the side passages, and though Oliver’s claims about a cyclopian’s lack of depth perception held true once more, the sheer numbers of flying bolts presented a serious problem.
“Run on!” came a cry from the ledge, a voice Luthien knew.
“Siobhan,” he said to Oliver, pulling the halfling along as he made for the wall.
Luthien grabbed Oliver’s rope and gave three quick tugs, releasing the magical grapnel from the ceiling. Siobhan’s group already had one rope down to them, and Shuglin’s companion grabbed on and began climbing swiftly, hand over hand. An arrow thunked into the dwarf’s heavily muscled shoulder, but he only grimaced and continued on his determined way.
Luthien set Oliver’s r
ope, heaving the grapnel onto the wall up beside the ledge, and he handed the rope over to Shuglin. The dwarf bade Oliver to grab on to his back, and up they went, Luthien shaking his head in amazement at how quickly the powerful dwarf could climb.
A spear skipped across the stone between Luthien’s legs; cyclopians came out of all three passages, the lead ones carrying large shields to protect them from the archers on the ledge.
Luthien had wanted to wait and let Shuglin and Oliver get off the rope, not knowing how much weight the small grapnel would support, but he had run out of time. He leaped up as high as he could, grabbing the rope (and tucking its end up behind him), and began pulling himself up, hand over hand, trying to steady his feet against the wall so that he could walk along.
It wasn’t as easy as the powerful dwarves made it look. Luthien made progress, but he would have surely been caught, or prodded by long spears, except that Shuglin shrugged Oliver off as soon as they made the ledge, and he and his dwarven companion took up the rope and began to methodically haul it in.
Arrows whizzed down past Luthien’s head, and even more alarmingly, arrows and spears came up from below. He felt a bang against his foot and turned his leg to see an arrow sticking from the heel of his boot.
Then rough hands grabbed his shoulders and he was hauled over the ledge, and on the group ran. They passed several dead cyclopians, including the two Luthien and Oliver had killed, and came out of the tunnel, hearing that the cyclopians had gained the ledge behind them and were once again in pursuit.
“Our horses are there!” Luthien explained to Siobhan, and she nodded and kissed him quickly, then pushed him along to catch up with Oliver. She and her Cutter companions, along with Shuglin and the other dwarf, went the other way, disappearing into the brush.
“I cannot believe they came for us,” Luthien remarked as he caught up to the halfling, Oliver with one foot already in Threadbare’s stirrup.
“You must be a good kisser,” the halfling answered. Then Threadbare leaped away, Riverdancer pounding right behind, back out onto the road.
The cyclopian horde exited the mine, howling with outrage, but all they heard was the pounding of hooves as Luthien and Oliver charged away.
CHAPTER 21
UNWANTED ATTENTION
LUTHIEN CASUALLY WALKED into the Dwelf sometime after Oliver, as the halfling had instructed. Oliver had grown very cautious in the week since the escape at the mines and had gone out of his way so that he and Luthien were not viewed as an inseparable team. Luthien didn’t really understand the point; there were enough halfling rogues in this area of Montfort to more than cover their tracks. If the Praetorian Guard was searching for a human and his halfling sidekick, they would have dozens of possibilities to sift through.
Luthien didn’t argue, though, thinking the halfling’s demands were prudent.
The Dwelf was packed, as it had been every night that week. Elves and dwarves, halflings and humans filled every table—except one. There in the corner sat a group of cyclopians, Praetorian Guards, brimming with fine weapons and wearing grim, scowling expressions.
Luthien pushed his way through the crowd and found, conveniently, an empty stool at the bar near Oliver.
“Oliver!” he said, overly excited. “So good to see you again! How long has it been? A month?”
Oliver turned a skeptical look upon the exuberant young man.
“You were both in here the night before last,” Tasman remarked dryly, walking past.
“Oops,” Luthien apologized, giving a weak smile and a shrug. He looked around at the throng. “The crowd is large again this night,” he remarked.
“Good gossip brings them in,” Tasman replied, walking past the other way and sliding an ale across the counter to Luthien as he went off to see to another thirsty customer.
Luthien hoisted the mug and took a hearty swig, then noticed Oliver’s profound silence, the halfling wearing an expression which showed him to be deep in contemplation.
“Good gossip—” Luthien started to say. He was going to ask what the patrons might be talking about, but in just deciphering the small patches of conversation he caught out of the general din about him, he knew the answer. They were talking about the Crimson Shadow—one scruffy-looking human even shuffled his drunken way near the cyclopians’ table and muttered, “The Shadow Lives!” and snapped his fingers under their noses. One of the brutes started up immediately to throttle the rogue, but its comrade grabbed it by the arm and held it firmly in place.
“There is sure to be a fight,” Luthien said.
“It will not be the first this week,” Oliver replied glumly.
They remained in the Dwelf for more than an hour, Luthien taking in all the excited chatter and Oliver sitting with a single ale, mulling over the situation. A general chorus of dissatisfaction sounded behind every story, and it seemed to Luthien as if the legend he had become had given the poor of Montfort a bit of hope, a rallying point for their deflated pride.
His step was light when Oliver left the Dwelf, signaling him to follow.
“Perhaps we should stay a while,” Luthien offered when they walked out into the crisp night air. “There may be a fight with the cyclopians, and the brutes are better armed than the Dwelf’s patrons.”
“Then let the patrons learn their folly,” Oliver retorted.
Luthien stopped and watched the halfling as Oliver continued on his way. He didn’t know exactly what was bothering Oliver, but he understood that it probably had something to do with the increased attention.
Oliver was indeed worried, fearful that this whole “Crimson Shadow” business was quickly getting out of control. It did not bother the halfling to hear the populace speaking out against the tyrannies of Morkney and his pompous merchant class—those wretches had it coming, the halfling figured. But Oliver did harbor a thief’s worst fear: that he and Luthien were attracting too much unwanted attention from powerful adversaries. The halfling loved being the center of attention, oftentimes went out of his way to be the center of attention, but there were reasonable limits.
Luthien caught up to him quickly. “Have you planned an excursion into the upper section this night?” the young man asked, and it was plain from his tone that he hoped Oliver had not.
The halfling turned his gaze upon Luthien and cocked an eyebrow as if to mock the question. They had not pulled any jobs since springing Shuglin, and Oliver had explained that they likely wouldn’t go into the upper section again for at least a month. He knew why Luthien was asking, though.
“You have plans,” he stated as much as asked. Oliver could guess the answer readily enough. Luthien was ready for another tryst with Siobhan.
“I will meet with the Cutters,” Luthien answered, “to check on Shuglin and his companion.”
“The dwarves fare well,” Oliver said. “Elves and dwarves get on well, since they share persecution at the hands of the humans.”
“I just want to check,” Luthien remarked.
“Of course,” Oliver said with a wry smile. “But perhaps you should come this night back to the apartment. The air is chill and the Dwelf will likely see trouble before the moon is set.”
The deflated look that washed over Luthien nearly pulled a burst of laughter from Oliver’s serious expression. Oliver didn’t harbor any intentions of keeping Luthien from his meeting, he just wanted to make the young man squirm a bit. In the halfling’s view, love should never be an easy thing: sweeter tasting is the forbidden fruit.
“Very well,” the halfling said after a long and uncomfortable moment. “But do not be out too late!”
Luthien was off and running, and Oliver did chuckle. He smiled all the way back to the apartment, his worries brushed aside by his romantic nature.
Candles burned long into the night in the private chambers of Duke Morkney’s palace. A group of merchants had demanded an audience, and the duke, so busy with the approaching end of the trading season, could find no time to accommodate them earlier in t
he day.
Morkney could easily guess the topic of this meeting—all of Montfort was buzzing about the break at the mines. Morkney was not so concerned with the news—this wasn’t the first time a prisoner had escaped, after all, and it wouldn’t likely be the last. But these merchants, standing before the duke’s fabulous desk, their grim features set with worry, obviously were more than a little concerned.
The duke sat back in his chair and listened attentively as the merchants complained and whined, their stories always connected to this mysterious Crimson Shadow figure.
“They’re painting red shadows all over my store!” one man grumbled.
“And mine,” two others said at the same time.
“And nearly every street in Montfort bears the words ‘The Shadow Lives!’” offered another.
Morkney nodded his understanding; he, too, had seen the annoying graffiti. He understood, too, that this Crimson Shadow wasn’t doing the painting. Rather, others were taking up the call of this mysterious figurehead; and that, Morkney was wise enough to realize, was more dangerous indeed.
He listened to the rambling merchants for another hour, politely, though he heard the same stories over and over again. He promised to take the matter under serious consideration, but secretly, Morkney was hoping that this minor annoyance would simply go away.
King Greensparrow was complaining again about the size of Montfort’s tithe, and by all the words of the local seers, the winter would be a cold one.
And so the duke of Montfort was more than a little relieved when the captain of his Praetorian Guard interrupted his breakfast the next morning to inform him that the wagon caravan which had set out for Avon—the caravan carrying the four men who had been sentenced the same day as the dwarf, Shuglin—had been attacked on the road.
The captain of the guard produced a tattered red cloak, its material taking on the darker hue of dried blood in many places.
“We got the bloke,” the cyclopian said. “No more Crimson Shadow. And we got the halfling ’twas said to be traveling in the shadow’s shadow! And seven others”—he held up six fingers—“that were with them.”
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