The Crimson Shadow

by R. A. Salvatore

  Paragor shook his head, realizing what that distant communication would offer. Greensparrow would dismiss the whole affair, would insist that the upstarts in Eriador were a mob and nothing more.

  Paragor considered his options. The nearest dukes, fellow wizards, were in Evenshorn, far to the south, and in Warchester, all the way around the southern spur of the Iron Cross, on the banks of glassy Speythenfergus. It would take them weeks to even muster their forces, and weeks more for their armies to trudge through the mud and melting snows to get to Princetown. The wizard-dukes could get to Paragor’s side, of course, by using their magic—perhaps they could even bring along a fair contingent of Praetorian Guards. But would they really make a difference against the force he believed would be coming down from Eriador? And what of his own embarrassment if he called to them and begged them, and then the unpredictable Eriadorans did not come?

  “But I have other allies!” Paragor snarled suddenly, startling Thowattle, who was sitting on the rug in a corner of the lavish room.

  Thowattle studied his master carefully, recognizing the diabolical expression. Paragor meant to summon a demon, the cyclopian realized, or perhaps even more than one.

  “Let us see if their will for war can be slowed,” the wicked duke continued. “Perhaps if the Crimson Shadow is slain . . .”

  “That would only heighten the legend,” the wary cyclopian warned. “You will make a martyr of him, and then he will be more powerful, indeed!”

  Paragor wanted to argue the point, but found that he could not; the unusually perceptive one-eye was right again. Paragor improvised—there were ways to kill a man’s spirit without killing the man. “Let us suppose that I can break the will of the Crimson Shadow,” Paragor offered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Perhaps he could break the man’s heart.

  CHAPTER 23

  COLLECTING ALLIES

  IT WAS A BARE ROOM, empty of all furnishings save a single brazier set upon a sturdy tripod near the southeastern corner. Each of the walls bore a single sconce holding a burning torch, but were otherwise plain and gray, as was the ceiling. The floor, though, was not so unremarkable. Intricate tiles formed a circular mosaic in the center of the room, its middle area decorated as a pentagram. The circle’s outer perimeter was a double line, and within these arching borders were runes of power and protection.

  Paragor stood within the circle now, with Thowattle by the brazier, the cyclopian carrying a small crate holding many compartments strapped about his burly neck. The duke himself had placed the tiles, every tiny piece, years before—a most painstaking process. More often than not, Paragor would have finished one section and upon inspection discover that it was not perfect. Then he would have to rip up all the tiles and start again, for the Circle of Sorcery, the protection offered the wizard against whatever evil demon he summoned, had to be perfect. The design had stood the test for several years, against many demons.

  Paragor stood absolutely still, reciting the long and arduous chant, a call to hell itself interspersed with thousands of protection spells. Every so often, he lifted his left hand toward Thowattle and spoke a number, and the cyclopian reached into the appropriate compartment of his crate, took out the desired herb or powder, and plunked it into the burning brazier.

  Sometimes the component created a heavily scented smoke, other times, a sudden burst of flame, a miniature fireball. Gradually, through the hours of the sorcerous process, the fires in the brazier began to mount. At first, there had been no more than a lick of flame; now a fair-sized fire raged in the middle of the brazier, the heat of it drawing sweat on the already smelly cyclopian.

  Paragor seemed oblivious to it all, though in truth, he and his magic were the true source of the brazier’s life. There were two types of sorcery: lending and true summoning. The first, lending, was by far the easier route, wherein the wizard allowed a demon to enter his body. The true summoning, which Paragor now attempted, was much more difficult and dangerous. Paragor meant to bring a demon in all its unholy majesty into this room, and then to loose it upon the world, following a strict set of instructions given it by the wizard.

  Demons hated servitude and hated more those who forced it on them, but Paragor was confident in his sorcery. He would bring in Kosnekalen, a minor fiend, and one he had dealt with successfully on several occasions.

  The flames in the brazier went from orange to yellow to bright white, their intensity and fury growing as Paragor shifted dancing. The wizard spun about his circle, never crossing the line, calling out emphatically, throwing all of his heart into the chant, an unholy tenor, his voice breaching the gates of hell.

  He stopped suddenly, thrusting his left hand out toward Thowattle, calling for six, three times, and the cyclopian, no novice to this awful experience, reached into the sixth compartment of the sixth row, extracting a brown, gooey substance.

  Into the brazier it went and the flames burned hotter still, so hot that the cyclopian had to back away several steps. Inside the circle, Paragor fell to his knees, his left hand extended, tears mixing with sweat on his sallow features.

  “Kosnekalen!” he begged as black crackles of lightning encircled the white fires, as the flames reached a new level of life.

  Thowattle fled to the northwestern corner and huddled, terrified, on the floor, covering his eyes.

  A forked tongue flicked from the flames and behind it, a dark shadow appeared, a huge head capped by great curving horns. A monstrous, muscled arm reached out the side of the fires, followed by a leathery wing—a huge leathery wing!

  Paragor’s face went from pain to ecstasy to curiosity. Kosnekalen was a lithe demon, man-sized, with tiny tipped horns, but this fiend was much larger and, the wizard could already sense, much more powerful.

  Clawed fingers raked the air as a second arm came forth, and then, in a burst of sheer power, the flames spewed forth the fiend, a gigantic, twelve-foot-tall monstrosity with smoking black flesh and scales. Its face was serpentine, long and wicked fangs jutting over its lower jaw, drool dripping beside them and hissing like acid as it hit the stone floor. Three-clawed feet scraped impatiently on the floor, drawing deep lines in the stone.

  “Kosnekalen?” Paragor asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “I called for Kosne—” the wizard began.

  “I came in Kosnekalen’s place!” the demon roared, its horrid voice, both grating and squealing, echoing off the bare walls.

  Paragor tried hard to collect his wits. He had to appear in command here, else the demon would crash out of the room and go on a rampage, destroying everything in its path. “I require only a single service,” the duke began. “One that should be pleasurable . . .”

  “I know what you require, Paragor,” the demon growled. “I know.”

  Paragor straightened. “Who are you?” he demanded, for he had to know the demon’s name before he could demand a service of it. This could be a tricky and dangerous moment, the practiced sorcerer understood, but to his surprise, and his relief, the demon willingly replied.

  “I am Praehotec,” the beast said proudly. “Who was with Morkney when Morkney died.”

  Paragor nodded—he had heard a similar tale from Kosnekalen. Kosnekalen had been more than happy to tell the tale in great detail, and Paragor had sensed that there was a great rivalry between the fiends.

  “I was denied a pleasure then,” the evil Praehotec went on, barely sublimating its boiling rage. “I will not be denied that pleasure again.”

  “You hate the Crimson Shadow,” Paragor reasoned.

  “I will eat the heart of the Crimson Shadow,” Praehotec replied.

  Paragor smiled wickedly. He knew just how to open that heart to the fiend.

  Paragor’s vision had been narrowly focused on the events to the north of Princetown, in Glen Albyn and farther north, in Bronegan and the Fields of Eradoch, but that focus, those self-imposed blinders necessary for such divining, hadn’t allowed him a view to the northwest, into the mounta
ins of the Iron Cross.

  Shuglin stood tall in those mountains, watching to the east, toward the wall and the city of Princetown. He and his remaining kin, less than three hundred of the bearded folk, had gone out from Caer MacDonald when the army had marched, but had traveled south into the heart of the towering mountains, where the snow still lay thick, where winter had not yet relinquished its icy grasp. Shuglin had gone to guard the mountain passes, though the dwarf and Brind’Amour, who had sent him, knew that those passes would be blocked for more than a month still, and maybe longer than that.

  Brind’Amour was the only non-dwarf who knew the real mission behind Shuglin’s dangerous march. That hope had been realized less than a week out from Caer MacDonald, in a deep, deep cavern high up from the city. For many years, the beleaguered dwarfs of Montfort, now Caer MacDonald, had heard rumors of their kin living free among the peaks of the Iron Cross. Most of the dwarfs were old enough to remember mountain dwarfs who had come into the city to trade in the days before Greensparrow, and one of the group, an old graybeard who had been enslaved in the mines since the earliest days of Greensparrow’s reign, claimed to be from that tribe, the descendants of Burso Ironhammer. That old graybeard had survived twenty years of hard labor in the mines, then the fierce battles of Montfort. It was he, not Shuglin, who had led the troupe into the snow-packed passes, through secret tunnels, and ultimately into the deep cave, the realm of Burso’s folk.

  What Shuglin and the other city dwarfs found in that cavern made their hearts soar, made them know, for perhaps the first time, what it was to be a dwarf. Far below the snow-covered surface, in smoky tunnels filled more with shadow than light, the dwarfs had met their kin, their heritage. DunDarrow, the Ingot Shelf, the place was called, a complex of miles of tunnels and great underground caverns. Five thousand dwarfs lived and worked here, in perfect harmony with the stone that was the stuff of their very being. Shuglin looked upon treasures beyond anything he could imagine; piles of golden and silver artifacts, gleaming weapons, and suits of mail to rival those of the mightiest and wealthiest knights in all of the Avonsea Islands.

  Though these were city dwarfs, they were welcomed with open arms by the king of the mines, Bellick dan Burso, and hundreds of the mountain folk gathered each night in several of the great halls to hear the tales of the battle, to hear of the Crimson Shadow and the victory in Montfort.

  Now wrapped in thick furs, Shuglin stood on a high pass, waiting for King Bellick. The dwarf king, younger than Shuglin, with a fiery orange beard and eyebrows so bushy that they hung halfway over his blue eyes, was not tardy, and the eagerness of his step as he came onto the ledge gave Shuglin hope.

  The city dwarf knew that he would be asking much of this king and his clan. Shuglin was glad that the king was a young dwarf, full of fire, and full of hatred for Greensparrow.

  Bellick moved up to the ledge beside the blue-bearded dwarf and gave a nod of greeting. “We daresn’t trade with Montfort since the wizard-king took the throne,” Bellick said, something Shuglin had heard a hundred times in the two days he had been at DunDarrow.

  Bellick gave a snort. “Many haven’t seen the outside-the-mountains land in score of years,” the dwarf king continued. “But we’re loving the inside-the-mountain land, so we’re contented.”

  Shuglin looked at him, not quite believing that claim.

  “Contented,” Bellick reiterated, and his voice didn’t match the meaning of the word. “But we’re not happy. Most have no desire to go out to the flatlands, but even they who are content are not liking the fact that we cannot go safely outside the mountains.”

  “Prisoners in your own home,” Shuglin remarked.

  Bellick nodded. “And we’re not liking the treatment of our kin.” He put his hand on Shuglin’s strong shoulder as he spoke.

  “You will come with me, then,” the blue-bearded dwarf reasoned. “To the east.”

  Bellick nodded again. “Another storm gathers over the mountains,” he said. “Winter will not let go. But we have ways of travel, underground ways, that will get us to the eastern edges of DunDarrow.”

  Shuglin smiled, but tried hard to keep his emotions hidden. So perhaps he was not out of the fighting yet, he mused. He would return to Luthien and Siobhan’s side, with five thousand armed and armored dwarven warriors in his wake.

  Luthien sat alone on the stump of a tree and let the melancholy afternoon seep into his mood. Oliver had been right, he knew. Over the last few weeks, Luthien had been running away from his emotions, first by sending Katerin to Port Charley, then by traipsing off with Oliver on the roundabout circuit to Glen Albyn. He could continue to justify his cowardice in the face of love by focusing on his bravery in the face of war.

  But he did not. Not now. There was great excitement in the Eriadoran camp, with whispers that they would soon cross through Malpuissant’s Wall and march south, but for Luthien, the battle suddenly seemed secondary. He believed that they could win, could take Princetown and force Greensparrow to grant them their independence, but what then? Would he become king of Eriador?”

  And if he did, would Katerin be his queen?

  It all came inescapably back to that. Sitting on that tree stump, looking up at the indomitable Dun Caryth, dark against a gray sky that was fast fading to black as the sun dipped low, Luthien found himself at odds, caught somewhere between responsibilities to the kingdom and to himself. He wanted to be the Crimson Shadow, the leader of the rebellion, but he also wanted to be Luthien Bedwyr, son of an eorl on an island far to the north, fighting only bloodless battles in the arena and romping through the woods with Katerin O’Hale.

  He had come so far, so fast, but the journey would not be worth the cost if that price included the loss of his love.

  “Coward,” he berated himself, standing up and stretching. He turned about, facing the encampment, and started his march. He knew where Katerin would be, in a small tent across the way, on the northern edges of the wide camp, and he knew, too, that he had to face her now and put an end to his fear.

  By the time he got to Katerin’s tent, the sun was gone. A single lantern burned inside the tent, and Luthien could see Katerin’s silhouette as she pulled off her leather jerkin. He watched that curvy shadow for a long while, full of admiration and passion. Siobhan was right, Luthien knew. He cared for the half-elf deeply, but this woman, Katerin, was his true love. When the wild rush of the rebellion was ended, even if they proved victorious, it would be a hollow win indeed for Luthien Bedwyr if Katerin would not stand with him.

  He should go right into that tent and tell her that, he knew, but he could not. He walked off into the darkness, cursing himself, using every logical argument to try to overcome his fear.

  It took him two hours to muster the courage to return, now carrying a lantern of his own, his clothing soaked by the mist that had come up and his bones chilled by the breeze.

  “Straight in,” he whispered determinedly, his stride quick and direct. “Katerin,” he called softly when he got to the tent flap. He pushed it aside and stuck his head in, then brought the lantern around.

  Then he froze with horror.

  Katerin sprawled diagonally across her cot, her shoulders hanging over the edge, her head and one arm against the ground. It took Luthien several seconds to digest that sight, to shift his gaze even a bit.

  To see the gigantic demon crouched in the shadows at the bottom of Katerin’s cot, the beast’s sheer bulk filling the corner of the tent.

  “Do you remember, foolish man?” Praehotec snarled, and came forward a squatting step.

  In one swift motion, Luthien set the lantern down and drew Blind-Striker, giving a yell and rushing forward wildly. His charge surprised the demon, who was more accustomed to watching men cower and run away.

  Luthien smashed Blind-Striker across one of Praehotec’s upraised arms, drawing a line of hissing, sputtering gray-green blood that smoked as it hit the ground.

  Screaming and slashing, Luthien’s fury would not r
elent. He didn’t think of the creature he battled, didn’t fear for his own death. All he knew was that Katerin, dear Katerin, was down, possibly dead, killed by this evil beast.

  The flurry continued for many moments, a dozen strikes or more, before Praehotec loosed a ball of sparking lightning that launched Luthien backward, slamming him into a tent pole. He was up immediately, hair dancing on ends, cinnamon eyes narrowed as he fought against twitching muscles to tighten his grip on the sword.

  “I will burn the skin from your bones,” Praehotec wheezed, a grating, discordant voice. “I will—”

  Luthien screamed at the top of his lungs and hurled himself forward. The demon whipped a huge wing out to intercept, taking a blow on its massive chest but buffeting and deflecting Luthien enough that the young man’s weapon could not dig in.

  Luthien tumbled to the side, gained control of the roll and spun about, slashing frantically, for he knew that the demon would be following.

  Praehotec, out of range, sneered at him, but then the demon started suddenly, coming up a bit out of its crouch, its huge shoulders lifting the entire tent.

  Luthien saw a glimmer, a rapier blade, sticking through the back of the tent, right over Katerin’s cot, aimed precisely at Praehotec’s rear end.

  “Ahah!” came a triumphant cry from outside the tent.

  Praehotec waved a clawed hand and a gout of flame disintegrated the material of the tent in that direction, revealing a very surprised Oliver deBurrows.

  “I could be wrong,” the halfling admitted as the demon turned.

  An arrow whipped over Oliver’s shoulder, thudding into the demon’s ugly, snakelike face.

  Praehotec roared, an unearthly, ghastly sound, and the hair on the nape of Luthien’s neck tingled. The young Bedwyr rushed right in, his terror overcome by the thought of Katerin.

  He scored a single hit with Blind-Striker, and then he was slapped away, tumbling, the whole world spinning. Lying flat against a corner, Luthien shook his head and forced himself to his knees, to see the demon approaching steadily, acidic drool dripping from its fanged maw.