The ground heaved under Ashannon’s feet, knocking him toward Deanna, and Mystigal, with a shriek, ran out to the right, behind the stumbling duke. He only got a couple of steps, though, before Brind’Amour completed his spell and snapped his fingers. As though he was fastened to an overstretched cord, Mystigal rushed forward suddenly, his feet barely scraping the ground. He went right between Deanna and Ashannon, knocking them to the stone, and continued his impromptu flight all the way across the plateau, coming face-first into Brind’Amour’s waiting grasp.
Red sparks came from that hand, too, and Brind’Amour wasted no time in bending the weakling man over backward, forcing him right to his knees.
Deanna and Ashannon collected themselves and eyed the spectacle of Brind’Amour’s bared power from a safe distance. Ashannon motioned questioningly toward the trio, but Deanna shook her head and would not approach.
The old wizard tilted his head back and closed his eyes, concentrating fully on the release of power. Theredon’s hands were tight about one arm, but the muscular man’s grip seemed not so strong anymore. Mystigal offered no resistance whatsoever, just flailed his arms helplessly as the red sparks bit at his skull.
Brind’Amour attuned himself to his opponents’ magic, that inner area of wizardly power. He felt the line of power there, the connection to the frenzied fiends. He felt the line bending, bending, and then, in Mystigal first, it snapped apart.
With a resounding whining buzz, the insect demon was hurled back to Hell and the ground under Deanna’s bubble was quieter. As though he gained some resolve from that, Theredon growled and forced himself back to his feet.
Brind’Amour let go of Mystigal, who fell over backward to the stone, and put his full concentration on the stronger Theredon. The two held the pose for a long while, but then Theredon’s core of power, like Mystigal’s, snapped apart. Brind’Amour released him and he stood, precariously balanced, staring at the old wizard incredulously. Then, with all his strength, physical and magical, torn from his body, Theredon fell to the ground, facedown.
The stone beneath the old wizard’s feet was quiet suddenly, as the two-headed demon joined its buglike companion in banishment, their ties to the world cleanly severed.
Brind’Amour spun about, facing the duke and duchess, not sure what any of this was about. He tried to look threatening, but in truth feared that either Ashannon or Deanna, or both, would come at him now, for he had little strength remaining with which to combat them.
The two looked to each other, then began a cautious approach, Deanna’s hands held high and open, unthreatening.
On the ground, Mystigal groaned. Theredon lay very still.
“He will not awaken,” Brind’Amour said firmly. “I have torn his magic from him, destroyed the minor wizard that he was!” Brind’Amour tried to sound threatening, but Deanna only nodded, as though she had expected that all along.
“We are not your enemy,” she said, reading the old wizard’s tone and body language. “Our common enemy is Greensparrow, and he, it would seem, has lost two more of his wizard-dukes.”
With a sizzle and a puff, the blue-swirling globe vanished.
“Good spell,” Brind’Amour congratulated.
“Years in perfecting,” replied Deanna, “in preparation for the day that I knew would come.”
Brind’Amour looked at her curiously. “Yet you performed the powerful magic without aid of your demon,” he remarked suspiciously.
“I have no demon,” she answered evenly.
“Nor do I,” added Ashannon.
Brind’Amour eyed the duke of Eornfast skeptically, sensing that the man was not so certain of, or comfortable with, his position as was Deanna.
“I prefer the older ways,” said Deanna. “The ways of the brotherhood.”
Brind’Amour found that he believed her, though he could not have done much if he didn’t. He was too tired to either attack the pair or flee the plateau. Deanna, too, seemed exhausted. She walked over slowly, bending low to inspect the pair of fallen dukes.
“Theredon is dead,” she announced without emotion as she looked back to Ashannon, “but Mystigal lives.”
Ashannon nodded, walked to the edge of the plateau, and leaped off into the night sky. Brind’Amour caught the flutter as the man transformed into some great nightbird, and then was gone.
Brind’Amour looked to Deanna. “Talkative fellow,” he said.
“Duke McLenny knows that he has sacrificed much for this day,” she replied. “Too much, perhaps, and so you must be content in the knowledge that he did not join with Theredon and Mystigal against you.”
“But neither did he join with me,” Brind’Amour pointed out.
Deanna didn’t answer, just walked back to the center of the plateau and dropped some liquid on the dying fire. Immediately the flames roared back to life, bathing Deanna in their warm, orange glow.
“Bring Mystigal near to the warmth,” she instructed Brind’Amour. “He does not deserve a cold death in such a remote, nameless place.”
Those were the last words she spoke that night. She sat watching the fire for a long while, not even seeming to notice Brind’Amour, who, after laying Mystigal beside the flames, sat directly across from her.
The old wizard didn’t press the point. He understood Deanna’s dilemma here, understood that the young woman had just cast off the beliefs that had sustained her for most of her life.
TO KNOW YOUR ENEMIES
Luthien and Bellick went to Brind’Amour’s tent together in the cool darkness before the dawn. The pair were full of enthusiasm, ready for battle once more. A lantern burned low on the pole just outside the entrance, but inside the tent was dark. The pair entered anyway, thinking to rouse Brind’Amour. The dawn attack was the customary course, after all, giving the armies all the day for fighting.
Little light followed them in, but enough for them to discern that the wizard was not inside.
“Must be out and about already, readying the plans,” Bellick remarked, but Luthien wasn’t so sure. Something was out of place, he realized instinctively.
Luthien moved to the wizard’s bed and confirmed his suspicions that it hadn’t been slept on the previous night. That was curious enough, but Luthien held a nagging suspicion that there was something more out of place. He glanced all about, but saw nothing apparent. All the furniture was in order, the table in the middle of the room, the stool beside it, the crystal ball atop it. Brind’Amour’s small desk sat against the tent side opposite the bed, covered in parchments, maps mostly, and by several bags filled with all sorts of strange potions and spell components.
“Come along,” Bellick called from the tent flap. “We’ve got to find the old one and get the line formed up.”
Luthien nodded and moved slowly to follow, looking back over his shoulder, certain that something was wrong. He got outside the tent, under the meager light of the low-burning lantern, Bellick several strides ahead of him.
“The crystal ball,” Luthien said suddenly, turning the dwarf about.
“What?”
“The crystal ball,” the young Bedwyr repeated, confident that he had hit on something important. “Brind’Amour’s crystal ball!”
“It was in there to be sure,” said Bellick. “Right in plain sight on the table.”
“He never leaves it so,” said Luthien, moving swiftly back into the tent. He heard Bellick groan and grumble, but the dwarf did follow, coming in just as Luthien settled on the stool, peering intently into the ball.
“Should you be looking into that?” Bellick asked. Like most of his race, Bellick was always a bit cautious where magic was concerned.
“I do not understand why it isn’t covered,” Luthien answered. “Brind’Amour . . .”
Luthien’s words fell away as an image, a familiar, cheery old face, thick with a tremendous white beard, suddenly appeared within the ball. “Ah, good,” said the illusionary Brind’Amour, “it is morning then, and you are preparing to take Pipery
. All speed, my friends. I doubt not the outcome. I do not know how long I will be gone, and I go only with the knowledge that Eriador’s forces are secure. Righteous speed!”
The image faded away as abruptly as it had appeared. Luthien looked back to Bellick, just a stocky silhouette framed by the open tent flap.
“So the wizard’s gone,” the dwarf said. “On good business, I do not doubt.”
“Brind’Amour would not leave if it wasn’t urgent,” Luthien agreed.
“The Huegoths, probably,” reasoned Bellick, and the thought that there might be trouble involving Ethan put a sour turn in Luthien’s stomach. Or perhaps the trouble was from the other way, from the west, where Oliver and Katerin sailed. Luthien looked again to the empty crystal ball. He reminded himself many times over that Brind’Amour’s demeanor had been cheerful, not dour.
“No matter,” the dwarf king went on. “We ever were an army led by two!”
Luthien understood that Bellick had just assumed control of all the forces, and he really couldn’t argue with the dwarf, who surely outranked him. There was an issue, though, which Luthien had wanted to discuss with Brind’Amour before the assault began. At the end of the previous war with Avon, when he had wanted to press on to Carlisle, Luthien had held the conviction that victory would be possible because many of the folk of Avon might see the truth of the situation, might realize that the army of Eriador wasn’t really their enemy. Luthien had come to agree that his expectations were likely overblown, but still, he couldn’t accept the notion that all of Avon’s folk, men and women much like the Eriadorans, would desire war against Eriador.
Bellick grunted and turned to go.
“Can you muster the lines yourself?” Luthien asked. The dwarf wheeled about, and though he couldn’t see the details of Bellick’s face, Luthien could sense his surprise.
“You’re going to look for Brind’Amour?” Bellick asked incredulously.
“No, but I had hoped to secure King Brind’Amour’s permission to go into Pipery, before the dawn, before the battle,” Luthien replied.
Bellick glanced over his shoulder, then stepped into the tent, obviously concerned.
“To scout out their defenses,” Luthien explained immediately. “With the crimson cape, I can get in and out, and not a cyclopian will be the wiser.”
Bellick stood staring at the young Bedwyr for a long while. “That is not why you wish to go,” the dwarf reasoned, for he had heard Luthien talking about the folk of Avon as potential allies many times in the last few weeks.
Luthien sighed. “We may have friends within Pipery’s walls,” he admitted.
Bellick offered no response.
“I came to ask permission of King Brind’Amour,” Luthien said, standing straight. “But King Brind’Amour is not to be found.”
“Thus you will go as is your pleasure,” said Bellick.
“Thus I ask permission to go from King Bellick dan Burso, who rightfully leads the army,” Luthien corrected, and the show of loyalty did much for Bellick as the dwarf stood straighter.
“You may be disappointed,” Bellick warned.
Luthien shrugged. “At the least, I will scout out their defenses,” he replied.
“And at the most?”
“Justice for the Avon populace,” Luthien replied without hesitation.
“Go, and quickly,” Bellick bade him. “We’ve less than two hours to the dawn, and I plan to eat my noontime meal in Pipery!”
Luthien didn’t really know what he would do as he used the cover of darkness and his magical cape to slip silently over Pipery’s wall, which was little more than a collection of ramshackle pilings.
He picked his way from darkened house to house, amazed at how few cyclopians were up and about. By all reports, and by his last encounter on the field, Luthien believed that the small village’s garrison had swelled in number with the addition of those Praetorian Guards fleeing the rout in the mountains. But where were they?
The riddle was solved as Luthien crossed the town’s main road, deep gouges cut into it from the passage of a huge caravan. Heading south, Luthien noted by the tracks, and not more than two days before. Across the road, the young Bedwyr came upon the town’s stables, two buildings connected by long fences. The doors of the barn were thrown wide, but no nickers or whinnies came from within, and the corral was empty, save for a few horse carcasses that had been butchered for meat.
Luthien took a deep and steadying breath, not thrilled by the reality of war’s dark threat. He wondered what other hardships the folk of Pipery, unwitting pawns in Greensparrow’s grand game, might have suffered these last few days.
He composed himself immediately, reminding himself that he could not afford to waste even a second of time. He trotted from shadow to shadow along the side of the main road, then paused when he came to a fork, east and southwest. Directly across from him, Luthien spied the first light he had seen since entering the village, a candle burning in the window of a large structure, which appeared to be the town’s chapel.
With a hopeful nod, Luthien darted across the road to the building’s side. He considered the Ministry in Caer MacDonald, a place of spirituality, but also the chosen headquarters for Greensparrow’s wretched Duke Morkney. Might that be the pattern even in the smaller villages? Within this chapel, might there be an eorl, or a baron, loyal to the king of Avon and holding Pipery under his iron-fisted rule?
A quick glance to the eastern sky reminded Luthien once again that he had little time to ponder. He slipped up to a side door, peeked in through a small window set in its middle, then, seeing no obvious enemies nearby, slowly turned the handle.
It wasn’t even locked, and Luthien eased it open, fully aware that he might find the bulk of the cyclopian garrison within.
To his surprise, and relief, the place seemed empty. He quietly closed the door behind him. He had come in to a small side room, the personal quarters of the place’s priest or caretaker, perhaps. The one other door lay open to the main prayer area. Luthien adjusted his shielding cape to ensure that he was fully covered, then moved up to the door jamb, peering around the corner.
A solitary figure was in the place, kneeling on a bench at the front of the chapel, facing away from Luthien. The man’s white robe revealed him as a priest.
Luthien nodded and padded in softly, moving from bench to bench and stopping often, blending with the wall in case the man turned back. As he neared the front of the chapel, he quietly slipped Blind-Striker from its sheath, but held it low, under the cape.
He could hear the priest then, whispering prayers for the safety of Pipery. Most telling of all was when the man asked God to “keep little Pipery out of the struggles of kings.”
Luthien pulled off his hood. “Pipery lays on the road to Carlisle,” he said suddenly.
The priest nearly toppled, and scrambled furiously to stand facing the intruder, eyes wide, jaw slack. Luthien noted the bruises on the man’s face, the split lip and the puffy eyes. Given the number of cyclopians who had come through the town recently, it wasn’t hard for the young Bedwyr to guess where those had come from.
“Whether it is friend or enemy to Eriador is Pipery’s own choice,” Luthien finished.
“Who are you?”
“An emissary from King Brind’Amour of Eriador,” Luthien replied. “Come to offer hope where there should be none.”
The man eyed Luthien carefully. “The Crimson Shadow,” he whispered.
Luthien nodded, then held up a calm and steady hand when the priest blanched white.
“I have not come to kill you or anyone else,” Luthien explained. “Only to see the mood of Pipery.”
“And to discover our weaknesses,” the priest dared to say.
Luthien chuckled. “I have five thousand battle-hungry dwarfs on the field, and a like number of men,” he explained. “I have seen your wall and what is left of your garrison.”
“Most of the cyclopians fled,” the priest confirmed, his gaze going
to the floor.
“What is your name?”
The man looked up, squaring his shoulders defiantly. “Solomon Keyes,” he replied.
“Father Keyes?”
“Not yet,” the priest admitted. “Brother Keyes.”
“A man of the church or of the crown?”
“How do you know they are not one and the same?” Keyes answered cryptically.
Luthien smiled warmly and pushed aside his cape, revealing his bared sword, which he promptly replaced in its scabbard. “They are not,” he replied.
Solomon Keyes offered no argument.
Luthien was pleased thus far with the conversation; he had the distinct feeling that Keyes did not equate God with Greensparrow. “Cyclopians?” he asked, motioning toward the priest’s bruised face.
Keyes lowered his gaze once more.
“Praetorian Guards, likely,” Luthien went on. “Come from the mountains, where we routed them. They passed through in a rush, stealing and slaughtering your horses, taking everything of value that we Eriadorans would not find it, and ordering the folk of Pipery, and probably the village cyclopian militia as well, to defend to the last.”
Keyes looked up, his soft features tightening, eyes sharp on the perceptive young Bedwyr.
“That is the way it happened,” Luthien said finally.
“Do you expect a denial?” Keyes asked. “I am no stranger to the brutish ways of cyclopians, and was not surprised.”
“They are your allies,” Luthien said, his tone edging on accusation.
“They are my king’s army,” Keyes corrected.
“That speaks ill of your king,” Luthien was quick to respond. Both men went silent, letting the moment of tension pass. It would do neither of them any good to get things worked up here, for both of them were fast coming to the conclusion that something positive might come from this unexpected meeting.
“It was not only the Praetorian Guards of the Iron Cross,” Keyes admitted, “but even many of our own militia. Even old Allaberksis, who has been in Pipery since the earliest—”
“Old?” Luthien interrupted. Aged cyclopians were a rarity.