Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,135

a circular dais, two steps up from the floor, and while the chair was ornate, decorated with glittering gemstones of green and red and violet, the floor was bare, except for narrow strips of red carpeting running from each of the room’s four doors to the dais.

Greensparrow—Brind’Amour knew it was the wretch, though he hadn’t seen the man in centuries, and had never known him well—lounged in the throne, fiddling with a huge ring upon the middle finger of his left hand. His hair was long and black and curly, and his face was painted and caked, though the makeup did little to hide the obvious toll his years of study and dealings with demons had taken. He appeared foppish, but Brind’Amour was not fooled. When Greensparrow looked out to regard the approaching cyclopian, his amber-colored eyes flickered with intelligence and intensity.

Brind’Amour wisely kept his magical eye near the cyclopian, hoping the strength of the imposing brute would somewhat mask the magical energy.

“What news, Belsen’Krieg?” the king asked, seeming bored.

Brind’Amour dared to move his magical eye out enough to get a good look at the brute. Belsen’Krieg was among the sturdiest and ugliest cyclopians the old wizard had ever seen. Rotting tusks stuck up over Belsen’Krieg’s upper lip, which had been split in half diagonally just below its wide, flattened nose. The brute’s eye was huge and bloodshot and a thick brow hung out over it like an awning on a storefront. Scars crossed both of Belsen’Krieg’s cheeks, and his neck, as thick as a child’s chest, seemed to be a yellow-green blob of scar tissue. His black-and-silver Praetorian Guard uniform, though, was perfectly neat, with gold brocade stitched on both shoulders and an assortment of medals and ribbons making his massive chest seem huger still.

“We have heard nothing from Montfort, my King,” the cyclopian snorted, his diction impressive for one of his race, but his articulation difficult to understand due to his almost constant snuffling.

“Morkney’s other cannot get back into the city,” Greensparrow said, more to himself than to Belsen’Krieg.

“Morkney’s other?” Brind’Amour whispered, thinking the choice of words odd. Was the wizard-king implying that all of his dukes had personal relationships with specific demons?

“So we must assume that the fool duke is dead,” Greensparrow went on.

“A minor inconvenience,” Belsen’Krieg offered.

“Is my ship ready to sail?” Greensparrow asked, and Brind’Amour held his breath, thinking that the king meant to go to Eriador personally to put down the revolt. If that happened, the old wizard knew, Luthien and his friends didn’t have a chance.

“The waters are clear of ice all the way to Chaumadore Port,” Belsen’Krieg replied immediately.

Gascony? Brind’Amour’s heart leaped with sudden hope. Greensparrow was going to Gascony!

“And the waters to the north?” the king asked, and again, Brind’Amour held his breath.

“Less so, by all reports,” the cyclopian answered.

“But you can get through,” Greensparrow replied, and the words were not a question but a command.

“Yes, my King.”

“Such silly business.” Greensparrow shook his head as though the whole affair was thoroughly distasteful. “We must show them their folly,” he went on, and rose from his chair, straightening his fine purple baldric and the thick and ruffled cloak. “Kill every man, woman, and child associated with the rebels. Make an example of them that Eriador will not forget for centuries to come.”

He had said it so casually, so ruthlessly.

“Yes, my King!” came the predictably eager reply. No cyclopian ever questioned an order to slaughter humans.

“And I warn you,” Greensparrow added, just before exiting the chamber through the back door, “if my vacation is interrupted, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Yes, my King,” Belsen’Krieg responded, and the cyclopian didn’t seem to be worried. Indeed, to the fearful old wizard watching from more than five hundred miles away, the cyclopian seemed to be rejoicing.

Brind’Amour cut the connection and leaned back in his chair. The crystal ball went dark, and so did the room, but the wizard didn’t command his enchanted candelabra to light.

He sat in the dark, considering the connection his enemies held with demons, a relationship that was apparently still very strong. Brind’Amour thought of the fateful decision of the brotherhood those many, many years ago. The cathedrals had been built, the islands knew peace, and few cared much for the wizards, old men and women all. Their time had passed, the brotherhood had decided—even the great dragons had been put down, destroyed or imprisoned in deep caves, as Brind’Amour and his fellows had sealed up Balthazar. Brind’Amour had lost his staff in