Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,124

in the young Bedwyr’s eyes.

“Port Charley,” guessed Katerin, referring to the seaport west of Montfort.

The elf nodded.

“Is the rumor based in knowledge or in fear?” Oliver asked.

“I do not know that there is a rumor at all,” the elf replied.

“Fear,” Oliver decided, and well-founded, he silently added. As the realities of the fighting in Montfort had settled in and the rebels turned their eyes outside the embattled city, talk of an Avon fleet sailing into Port Charley abounded. It seemed a logical choice for Greensparrow. The straits between Baranduine and Avon were treacherous in the winter, and icebergs were not uncommon, but it was not so far a sail, and the great ships of Avon could carry many, many cyclopians.

“What allies—” Luthien began to ask, but the elf cut him short, fully expecting the question.

“The folk of Port Charley are no friend of cyclopians,” he said. “No doubt they are glad that one-eyes are dying in Montfort, and that Duke Morkney was slain.”

“But . . .” Oliver prompted, correctly interpreting the elf’s tone.

“But they have declared no allegiance to our cause,” the elf finished.

“Nor will they,” Katerin put in. All eyes turned to her, some questioning, wondering what she knew. Luthien understood, for he had often been to Hale, Katerin’s home, an independent, free-spirited town not so different from Port Charley. Still, he wasn’t so sure that Katerin’s reasoning was sound. The names of ancient heroes, of Bruce MacDonald, sparked pride and loyalty in all Eriadorans, the folk of Port Charley included.

“If a fleet does sail, it must be stopped at the coast,” Luthien said determinedly.

Katerin shook her head. “If you try to bring an army into Port Charley, you will be fighting,” she said. “But not with allies of Greensparrow.”

“Would they let the cyclopians through?” Oliver asked.

“If they will not join with us, then they will not likely oppose Greensparrow,” Siobhan put in.

Luthien’s mind raced with possibilities. Could he bring Port Charley into the revolution? And if not, could he and his rebels hope to hold out against an army of Avon?

“Perhaps we should consider again our course,” Oliver offered a moment later.

“Consider our course?” Katerin and Siobhan said together.

“Go back underground,” the halfling replied. “The winter is too cold for much fighting anyway. So we stop fighting. And you and I,” he said to Luthien, nudging his friend, “will fly away like wise little birds.”

The open proclamation that perhaps this riot had gotten a bit out of hand sobered the mood of all those near to the halfling, even the many eavesdroppers who were not directly in on the conversation. Oliver had reminded them all of the price of failure.

Siobhan looked at her elvish companion, who only shrugged helplessly.

“Our lives were not so bad before the fight,” Tasman remarked, walking by Luthien and Oliver on the other side of the bar.

“There is a possibility of diplomacy,” Siobhan said. “Even now. Aubrey knows that he cannot put down the revolt without help from Avon, and he dearly craves the position of duke. He might believe that if he could strike a deal and rescue Montfort, Greensparrow would reward him with the title.”

Luthien looked past the speaker, into the eyes of Katerin O’Hale, green orbs that gleamed with angry fires. The notion of diplomacy, of surrender, apparently did not sit well with the proud warrior woman.

Behind Katerin, several patrons were jostled and then pushed aside. Then Katerin, too, was nudged forward as a squat figure, four feet tall but sturdy, sporting a bushy blue-black beard, shoved his way to stand before Luthien.

“What’s this foolish talk?” the dwarf Shuglin demanded, his gnarly fists clenched as though he meant to leap up and throttle Luthien at any moment.

“We are discussing our course,” Oliver put in. The halfling saw the fires in Shuglin’s eyes. Angry fires—for the dwarf, now that he had found some hope and had tasted freedom, often proclaimed that he would prefer death over a return to subjugation.

Shuglin snorted. “You decided your course that day in the Ministry,” he roared. “You think you can go back now?”

“Not I, nor Luthien,” the halfling admitted. “But for the rest . . .”

Shuglin wasn’t listening. He shoved between Luthien and Oliver, grabbed the edge of the bar, and heaved himself up to stand above the crowd.

“Hey!” he roared and the Dwelf went silent. Even Tasman, though certainly not appreciating the heavy boots on his polished bar, held back.

“Who in here is for surrendering?” Shuglin called.

The Dwelf’s crowd remained silent.

“Shuglin,” Luthien began, trying to