Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,102

and Luthien had been in the Ministry. “You are guilty,” Morkney said evenly, and he slipped back down into his seat, grinning wickedly. “Do enjoy the next five days in my dungeons.”

Five days? Luthien silently echoed. Was this the sentence? He heard Oliver’s groan again and figured that Morkney was not quite finished.

“For they will be your last five days!” the evil duke declared. “Then you will be hung by your neck—in the plaza bearing my own name!”

A general groan rose from the gathering, an uneasy shuffling, and cyclopian guards gripped their weapons more tightly, glancing from side to side as if they expected trouble. The sentence was not expected. The only time during Morkney’s reign that a sentence of death had ever been imposed was for the murder of a human, and even in such an extreme case, if the murdered human was not someone of importance, the guilty party was usually sentenced to a life of slavery.

Again the word “bait” flitted through Oliver’s thoughts. His mind careened along the possible trials he and his cohort would soon face, for Luthien would never allow such an injustice without at least a try at a rescue. The halfling figured that he would be busy indeed over the next five days, making connections with the Cutters and with anyone else who might help him out.

The distracted halfling figured differently when he looked back to Luthien, standing tall on the ledge, his bow out and ready.

With a cry of outrage, the young Bedwyr let fly, his arrow streaking unerringly for the chair and Duke Morkney, who glanced up to the triforium in surprise. There came a silvery flash, and not one arrow, but five, crossed the opening to the north transept. Then came a second flash, and each of those five became five; and a third, and twenty-five became a hundred and twenty-five.

And all of them continued toward the duke, and Luthien and Oliver looked on in disbelief.

But the volley was insubstantial; the dozens of arrows were no more than shadows of the first, and all of them dissipated into nothingness, or simply passed through the duke as he leaned forward in his chair, still grinning wickedly and pointing Luthien’s way.

Luthien felt himself an impetuous fool, a thought that did not diminish when he heard Oliver’s remark behind him.

“I do not think that was so smart a thing to do.”

CHAPTER 23

TELL THEM!

LUTHIEN FELL BACK from the ledge as the gargoyle statue writhed to life. He whipped his bow across, breaking it on the creature’s hard head, and started to call out for Oliver. But he soon realized that the halfling, now with his great hat upon his head, was already hard-pressed as the sinister statues all along the triforium animated to the call of their wizard master.

“Why do I always seem to find myself fighting along a ledge?” the halfling whined, ducking a clawed hand and jabbing ahead—only to sigh as his slender rapier bowed alarmingly, barely penetrating the gargoyle’s hard skin.

All gathered in the cathedral had, by this time, learned of the tumult along the arched passageway. Cyclopians shouted out commands; the duke’s man at the lectern called for the “death of the outlaws!” and then made the profound mistake of altering his cry to, “Death to the Crimson Shadow!”

“The Crimson Shadow!” more than one curious commoner shouted from the pews, pointing anxiously Luthien’s way. The timing was perfect for the young Bedwyr, for at that moment, he landed a clean strike on the gargoyle, his sword slashing down across the creature’s neck and biting deep into the hard wing. Luthien bulled ahead and the gargoyle fell from the ledge, flapping its wings frantically, though with the wound, it could not sustain itself in the air and spiraled down to the floor.

“The Crimson Shadow!” more people called out, and others screamed in terror as they came to recognize the living gargoyle.

Chased by two of the winged monsters, Oliver skittered behind Luthien to the edge of the corner where the triforium turned into the south transept. Frantically the halfling fumbled out his grapnel and rope, but he did not miss the significance of the growing tumult below.

Luthien’s sword sparked as it cut a ringing line across one gargoyle’s face. The young Bedwyr fought fiercely, trying to hold the powerful creatures at bay. He knew that he and Oliver were in trouble, though, for more monsters were coming along the arched passageway from the other way, and still others had taken wing and