Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,123

head and meant to get it, but he feared that his own, and those of many friends, would roll once King Greensparrow retaliated.

“So why are you sad, my friend?” Oliver asked, his patience worn thin by the stinging breeze. No more cyclopians had appeared atop the tower, and Oliver figured that it would take them an hour at least to descend, fill another cauldron, and haul the thing up. The comfort-loving halfling had no intention of waiting an hour in the freezing winter wind.

Luthien stood up and rubbed his hands and his arms briskly. “Come,” he said, to Oliver’s relief. “I am to meet Siobhan at the Dwelf. Her scouts have returned with word from the east and the west.”

Oliver hopped into line behind Luthien, but his step quickly slowed. The scouts had returned?

The worldly Oliver thought he knew then what was bothering Luthien.

The Dwelf, so named because it catered to nonhumans, particularly to dwarfs and elves, was bustling that day. It was simply too cold outside to wage any major battles, and many of the rebels were using the time to resupply their own larders and relax. Located in one of Montfort’s poorest sections, the Dwelf had never been very popular with any except the nonhuman residents of Montfort, but now, as the favored tavern of the Crimson Shadow, the hero of the revolution, it was almost always full.

The barkeep, a slender but rugged man (and looking more fearsome than usual, for he hadn’t found the time to shave his thick black stubble in nearly a week), wiped his hands on a beer-stained cloth and moved up to stand before Oliver and Luthien as soon as they took their customary seats at the bar.

“We’re looking for Siobhan,” Luthien said immediately.

Before Tasman could answer, the young Bedwyr felt a gentle touch on his earlobe. He closed his eyes as the hand slid lower, stroking his neck in the sensuous way only Siobhan could.

“We have business,” Oliver said to Tasman, then looked sidelong at the couple. “Though I am not so sure which business my excited friend favors at this time.”

Luthien’s cinnamon eyes popped open and he spun about, taking Siobhan’s hand as he turned and pulling it from his neck. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, to find that the half-elf was not only not alone, but that one of her companions was a scowling Katerin O’Hale.

The young man realized then that the gentle stroke of his neck had been given for Katerin’s benefit.

Oliver knew it, too. “I think that the war comes closer to my home,” he whispered to Tasman. The barkeep snickered and slid a couple of ale-filled mugs before the companions, then moved away. Tasman’s ears were good enough to catch everything important that was said along his bar, but he always tried to make sure that those conversing didn’t know he was in on the discussion.

Luthien locked stares with Katerin for a long moment, then cleared his throat again. “What news from Avon?” he asked Siobhan.

Siobhan looked over her left shoulder to her other companion, an elf dressed in many layers of thick cloth and furs. He had rosy cheeks and long eyelashes that glistened with crystals of melting ice.

“It is not promising, good sir,” the elf said to Luthien, with obvious reverence.

Luthien winced a bit, still uncomfortable with such formal treatment. He was the leader of the rebels, put forth as the hero of Eriador, and those who were not close to him always called him “good sir” or “my lord,” out of respect.

“Reports continue that an army is on the way from Avon,” the elf went on. “There are rumors of a great gathering of cyclopian warriors—Praetorian Guard, I would assume—in Princetown.”

It made sense to Luthien. Princetown lay diagonally across the Iron Cross to the southeast. It was not physically the closest to Montfort of Avon’s major cities, but it was the closest to Malpuissant’s Wall, the only pass through the great mountains that an army could hope to navigate, even in midsummer, let alone in the harsh winter.

Still, any march from Princetown to Montfort, crossing through the fortress of Dun Caryth, which anchored Malpuissant’s Wall to the Iron Cross, would take many weeks, and the rate of attrition in the harsh weather would be taxing. Luthien took some comfort in the news, for it didn’t seem probable that Greensparrow would strike out from Princetown until the spring melt was in full spate.

“There is another possibility,” the elf said grimly, seeing the flicker of hope