Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,125

calm his volatile friend.

The dwarf ignored him. “Who in here is for killing Aubrey and raising the flag of Caer MacDonald?”

The Dwelf exploded in cheers. Swords slid free of their sheaths and were slapped together above the heads of the crowd. Calls for Aubrey’s head rang out from every corner.

Shuglin hopped down between Oliver and Luthien. “You got your answer,” he growled, and he moved to stand between Katerin and Siobhan, his gaze steeled upon Luthien and muscular arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Luthien didn’t miss the smile that Katerin flashed at the dwarf, nor the pat she gave to him.

Of everything the dwarf had said, the most important was the ancient name of Montfort, Caer MacDonald, a tribute to Eriador’s hero of old.

“Well said, my friend,” Oliver began. “But—”

That was as far as the halfling got.

“Bruce MacDonald is more than a name,” Luthien declared.

“So is the Crimson Shadow,” Siobhan unexpectedly added.

Luthien paused for just an instant, to turn a curious and appreciative look at the half-elf. “Bruce MacDonald is an ideal,” Luthien went on. “A symbol for the folk of Eriador. And do you know what Bruce MacDonald stands for?”

“Killing cyclopians?” asked Oliver, who was from Gascony and not Eriador.

“Freedom,” Katerin corrected. “Freedom for every man and woman.” She looked to Siobhan and to Shuglin. “For every elf and every dwarf. And every halfling, Oliver,” she said, her intent gaze locking with his. “Freedom for Eriador, and for every person who would live here.”

“We talk of halting what we cannot halt,” Luthien put in. “How many merchants and their cyclopian guards have been killed? How many Praetorian Guards? And what of Duke Morkney? Do you believe that Greensparrow will so easily forgive?”

Luthien slipped off his stool, standing tall. “We have begun something here, something too important to be stopped by mere fear. We have begun the freeing of Eriador.”

“Let us not get carried away,” Oliver interjected. “Or we might get carried away . . . in boxes.”

Luthien looked at his diminutive friend and realized how far Oliver—and many others, as well, given the whispers that had reached Luthien’s ears—were sliding backward on this issue. “You are the one who told me to reveal myself in the Minisiry that day,” he reminded the halfling. “You are the one who wanted me to start the riot.”

“I?” Oliver balked. “I just wanted to get us out of there alive after you so foolishly jumped up and shot an arrow at the Duke!”

“I was there to save Siobhan!” Luthien declared.

“And I was there to save you!” Oliver roared right back at him. The halfling sighed and calmed, patted his hand on Luthien’s shoulder. “But let us not get carried away,” Oliver said. “In boxes or any other way.”

Luthien didn’t calm a bit. His thoughts were on destiny, on Bruce MacDonald and the ideals the man represented. Katerin was with him, so was Shuglin, and so was his father, back on Isle Bedwydrin. He looked toward Siobhan, but could not read the feelings behind the sparkle of her green eyes. He would have liked something from her, some indication, for over the past few weeks she had quietly become one of his closest advisors.

“It cannot be stopped,” Luthien declared loudly enough so that every person in the Dwelf heard him. “We have started a war that we must win.”

“The boats will sail from Avon,” Oliver warned.

“And so they will be stopped,” Luthien countered, cinnamon eyes flashing. “In Port Charley.” He looked back out at the crowd, back to Siobhan, and it seemed to him as if the sparkle in her eyes had intensified, as if he had just passed some secret test. “Because the folk of that town will join with us,” Luthien went on, gathering strength, “and so will all of Eriador.” Luthien paused, but his wicked smile spoke volumes.

“They will join us once the flag of Caer MacDonald flies over Montfort,” he continued. “Once they know that we are in this to the end.”

Oliver thought of remarking on just how bitter that end might become, but he held the thought. He had never been afraid of death, had lived his life as an ultimate adventure, and now Luthien, this young and naive boy he had found on the road, had opened his eyes once more.

Shuglin thrust his fist into the air. “Get me to the mines!” he growled. “I’ll give you an army!”

Luthien considered his bearded friend. Shuglin had long been lobbying for an attack on the Montfort mines, outside of town,