Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,163

in front of the Dwelf, where the impromptu celebration continued and an occasional soul wandered outside. Beyond the city’s wall, Luthien could see the fires of the dwarven encampment. Some were blazing, but most had burned down to low embers, an orange glow in the darkened field.

“Sleep well,” the young Bedwyr whispered. “Your work is not yet done.”

“Nor is our own,” Luthien heard behind him, and he turned to see Siobhan’s approach, her step so light and quiet that she wasn’t leaving an impression in the hardened snow that covered most of the roof.

Luthien looked back to the Ministry and the stars. He did not flinch, did not tense at all, as Siobhan put her hand under his ear and ran it gently down his neck to his shoulder.

“Katerin and Oliver have failed,” Luthien said, bitter words indeed. “We have failed.”

Siobhan cleared her throat, and it sounded to Luthien as more of a snicker than a cough. He turned to regard her.

How beautiful she appeared in the quiet light of evening; how fitting she seemed to the time of starlight, her eyes twinkling like those stars in the heaven above, her skin pale, almost translucent, and her hair flowing thick and lustrous, in such contrast to the delicate and sharp angles of her elven features.

“You declare defeat before the battle is even begun,” Siobhan answered, her voice calm and soothing.

“How many cyclopians?” Luthien asked. “And they’re not ordinary tribe beasts, but Praetorian Guard, the finest of Greensparrow’s army. Ten thousand? Fifteen? I do not know that we could hold back half that number.”

“They will not be as many when they get to Caer MacDonald,” Siobhan assured him. “And our own numbers will grow as villagers flock in from the western towns.” Siobhan slid her hand down Luthien’s shoulder, across his chest, and leaned close, kissing him on the temple.

“You are the leader,” she said. “The symbol of free Eriador. Your will must not waver.”

Once more Luthien Bedwyr felt as if he had become a pawn in a game that was much too large for him to control. Once more he felt himself in the embrace of the puppeteer. Siobhan. Beautiful Siobhan. This time, though, Luthien did not resist that touch, the pulling of his strings. This time the presence of the half-elf, a tower of strength and determination, came as a welcome relief to him.

Without Siobhan beside him, behind him, Luthien believed that he would have broken that night, would have lost his purpose as he lost his hope. Without Siobhan, his guilt for those who would soon die, and who had already died, would have overwhelmed the prospects of the future, for with such a tremendous force marching toward the liberated city, the thought of a free Eriador seemed a fleeting, twinkling fantasy, as unreachable as the stars that flanked the tower of the Ministry.

Siobhan led him from the roof and back to the apartment in Tiny Alcove.

Katerin did not sleep well that night, too worried for her homeland, but she heard Oliver’s contented snores in the room next to hers, comfortable quarters at a small inn high up the levels of Port Charley. The next morning, though, the woman of Hale was not tired, too excited by the sight of the departing army as she and Oliver joined Brind’Amour near to the eastern road.

The main body of the Avon force was long out of sight, several miles from the town already, and now came the supporting troops, mostly driving wagons loaded with provisions. Gretel directed its departure, working side by side with one of the largest and ugliest cyclopians either Katerin or Oliver had ever seen.

“The very ugliest!” Oliver assured his companions. “And I have seen many cyclopians!”

“Not as many as I,” Brind’Amour interjected. “And Belsen’Krieg, for that is the brute’s name, is truly the most imposing.”

“Ugly,” Oliver corrected.

“In spirit as well as in appearance,” Brind’Amour added.

“He will ride out soon to join with his force.” Katerin’s tone was anxious.

“Belsen’Krieg will lead them, not follow,” Brind’Amour confirmed. The wizard motioned to a powerful ponypig, heavily armor plated, with sharpened spikes protruding from every conceivable angle. Just looking at the monstrous thing, both Oliver and Katerin knew that it was Belsen’Krieg’s. Only the most ugly cyclopian would choose such a gruesome and horrible mount.

“As soon as Belsen’Krieg and his soldiers are away, we can stop the wagons,” Katerin reasoned, her face brightening suddenly. That light dimmed, though, as she regarded the old wizard.

“The wagons will roll throughout the day,”