“You,” he snarled accusingly, and Brind’Amour knew that the wizard-duke, who knew the stories of the ancient brotherhood and had no doubt been warned of Brind’Amour by Greensparrow, at last saw him for who he really was. With a primal scream, Paragor lifted his hands, and they glowed that sickly brownish-yellow color. The wizard-duke charged, his hands going for the old man’s throat.
• • •
By the time Luthien gained enough of his senses to look up, he was lying on the floor, a sheet of golden light suspended in the air above him. He saw the giant, shadowy form of Praehotec through that veil, saw the demon’s huge foot rise up above him.
Luthien closed his eyes, tried to grab his sword, but could not reach it in time, and screamed out, thinking he was about to be crushed.
But then it was Praehotec who was screaming, terrible, awful wails of agony, for as the demon’s foot entered the sheet of golden light, it was consumed, torn and ripped away.
• • •
Brind’Amour’s hands, glowing a fierce blue to match his own robes, came up to meet the duke’s charge. He caught Paragor’s hands in his own and could feel the disease emanating from them, a withering, rotting touch. Brind’Amour countered the only way he knew how, by reciting chants of healing, chants of ice that would paralyze Paragor’s invisible flies of sickness.
Paragor twisted and growled, pressing on with all his might. And Brind’Amour matched him, twisted and turned in accord with each of the duke’s movements. Then Paragor yanked one hand away suddenly, breaking the hold, and slapped at Brind’Amour’s face.
The old wizard intercepted with a blocking arm, accepting the slap, and his forearm, where his unprotected skin was touched by the evil duke, wrinkled and withered, pulling apart into an open sore. Brind’Amour responded by slamming his own palm into Paragor’s nose, and where the blue touched Paragor’s skin, it left an icy, crystalline whiteness, the duke’s nose and one cheek freezing solid.
Gulping for breath, the evil duke grabbed Brind’Amour’s hand with his own and the struggle continued. Paragor tried to pull Brind’Amour to the side, but to the duke’s surprise, the old wizard accepted the tug, even threw his own weight behind it, sending both of them tumbling down the hall, away from Luthien and Praehotec.
Luthien gawked at the spectacle, as Praehotec, unable to stop the momentum, sank more and more of its foot, then its ankle, into the light.
No, Luthien realized then, not light. Not a sheet of singular light, as he had first thought, but a swirling mass of tiny lights, like little sharp-edged diamonds, spinning about so fast as to appear to be a single field of light.
How they ate at the demon flesh, cutting and gobbling it into nothingness!
Everything turned red then, suddenly, as Praehotec loosed another of its powerful eye bolts, and an instant later, Luthien felt the demon’s blood and gore washing over him. He twisted and squirmed and looked up to find Brind’Amour’s protective barrier gone, along with half of Praehotec’s leg. The demon’s acidic lifeblood gushed forth, splattering the wall and floor and Luthien.
He took up his sword and rolled out from under the wounded demon, came up to his knees just as Oliver, rapier held before him, came gliding past with Estabrooke, the Dark Knight’s great sword glowing a fierce and flaming white.
Luthien tried to rise and join them, but found that he hadn’t the strength, and then Katerin was beside him, bracing his shoulders, hugging him close. She kissed him on the cheek—and he saw that she had taken a cudgel from one of the dead guards.
“I must go,” she whispered, and she scrambled up and ran off, not toward Oliver, Estabrooke, and the demon, but the other way.
Luthien looked back to see Brind’Amour and Paragor rolling and thrashing, alternately crying out. The sight brought the young Bedwyr further out of his stupor; he could control his muscles once more, but how they ached! Still, Luthien knew that he could not sit there, knew that the fight was not yet won.
• • •
“Ick!” Oliver said, skidding to a stop before he hit the puddle of demon gore.
Praehotec, leaning against the wall, didn’t seem to notice the halfling. It looked right over Oliver’s head to the shining sword and the armored man, this cavalier, this noble warrior, a relic of a past and more holy age. The demon recognized what this man was, the most hated of all humankind.
“Paladin,” Praehotec snarled, drool falling freely to the floor. Out came the great leathery wings as the beast huffed itself up to its most impressive stance, straight and as tall as the corridor would allow, despite its half-devoured leg.
Oliver was impressed by the fiend’s display, but Estabrooke, crying to God and singing joyfully, charged right in and brought his sword down in a great sweeping strike. The halfling watched his courage, knew the demon’s word, and understood what this man they had met on the fields of Eradoch truly was. “Douzeper,” the halfling muttered.
Estabrooke sheared off Praehotec’s raised arm.
The demon’s other arm came around, battering the man; twin beams became one before Praehotec’s eyes, flashing out, searing through the knight’s armor, aimed at his heart. The stump of the demon’s other arm became a weapon as Praehotec whipped it back and forth, sending a spray of acidic blood into the slits of Estabrooke’s helm.
Still Estabrooke sang, through the blindness and the pain, and he slashed again, gouging a wing, digging into the side of the demon’s chest with tremendous force.
Praehotec, balanced on just one foot, rocked to the side and nearly tumbled. But the beast came back furiously, with a tremendous, hooking blow that rang like a gong when it connected with the side of Estabrooke’s helm and sent the cavalier flying away, to crumple in the corner near to the battered door.
• • •
Finally, the wizards broke their entanglement, each scrambling to his feet, dazed and sorely stung. Several lesions showed on Brind’Amour’s skin and the sleeves of his beautiful robes were in tatters. Paragor looked no better, one leg stiff and frozen, icy blotches on his face and arms. The duke shivered and shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or simple rage, Brind’Amour could not tell.
Both were chanting, gathering their energies. Brind’Amour let Paragor lead, and when the duke loosed his power in the form of a bright yellow bolt, Brind’Amour countered with a stroke of the richest blue.
Neither bolt stopped, or even slowed, the other, and both wizards accepted the brutal hits, energy that struck about their heads and shoulders and cascaded down, grounding out at their feet, jolting them both.
“Damn you!” Paragor snarled. He seemed as if he would fall; so did Brind’Amour, the older wizard amazed at how strong this duke truly was.
But Paragor was nearing the end of his powers by then, and so was Brind’Amour, and it was not magic, not even a magical weapon, that ended the battle.
Katerin O’Hale crept up behind the wizard-duke and slammed the cyclopian cudgel down onto the center of his head, right between the hair “wings.” Paragor’s neck contracted and his skull caved in. He gave a short hop, but this time he held his footing only for a split second before falling dead to the floor.
• • •
There was no rest, no reprieve, for Praehotec. Before the demon could turn around, Oliver’s rapier dug a neat hole between the ribs of its uninjured side, and more devastating still was the fury of Luthien Bedwyr.
Luthien did not know that word Praehotec had uttered—“paladin”—but he knew the truth of Estabrooke, knew that the man was not just any warrior, but a holy warrior, grounded in principles and in his belief in God. To see him fall wounded Luthien profoundly, reminded him of the evil that had spread over all the land, of the sacrilege in the great cathedrals, where tax rolls were called, of the enslavement of the dwarfs and the elves. Now that fury was loosed in full, defeating any thoughts of fear. Luthien slashed away relentlessly with Blind-Striker, battering the demon about the shoulders and neck, pounding Praehotec down onto the she
ared leg, which would not support the beast’s great weight.
Praehotec tumbled to the ground, but Luthien did not relent, striking with all his strength and all his heart. And then, amazingly, Estabrooke was beside him, that shining sword tearing horrible wounds in the demon.
Again Praehotec’s rage was aimed at the cavalier. The demon kicked out with its good foot and at the same time opened wide its maw and vomited, engulfing Estabrooke with a torrent of fire.
The knight fell away, and this time did not rise.
Luthien’s next strike, as soon as the fires dissipated, went into the demon’s open maw, drove through the back of Praehotec’s serpent mouth, and into the beast’s brain. Praehotec convulsed violently, sending Luthien scrambling away, and then the battered beast melted away and dissolved into the floor, leaving a mass of gooey green ichor.
Luthien rushed to Estabrooke and gently turned up the faceplate of the fallen knight’s helm.
Estabrooke’s eyes stared straight up, unseeing, surrounded by cracked skin, burned by demon acid. Luthien heard banging on the door, cyclopian calls for Duke Paragor, but he could not tear himself away from the grievously wounded man.
Somehow Estabrooke smiled. “I pray you,” the knight gasped, blood pouring from his mouth. “Bury me in Caer MacDonald.”
Luthien realized how great a request that was. Estabrooke, this noble warrior, had just validated the revolution in full, had asked to be buried away from his homeland, in the land that he knew to be just and closer to God.
Luthien nodded, could not speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something comforting, to insist that Estabrooke would not die, but he saw the grievous wounds and knew that anything he might say would be a lie.
“Eriador free!” Estabrooke said loudly, smiling still, and then he died.
“Douzeper,” Oliver whispered as he crouched beside Luthien. “Paladin. A goodly man.”
The banging on the door to the outer corridor increased.
“Come, my friend,” Oliver said quietly. “We can do no more here. Let us be gone.”
“Lie down and pretend that you are dead,” Brind’Amour said suddenly, drawing both friends from the dead cavalier. They looked at each other, and then at the wizard, curiously.
“Do it!” Brind’Amour whispered harshly. “And you, too,” he said, turning to Katerin, who seemed as confused as Luthien and Oliver.
The three did as the wizard bade them, and none of them were comfortable when their skin paled, when more blood suddenly covered Katerin and Oliver, who had not been splattered and beaten, as had Luthien.
Their startlement turned to blank amazement when they regarded the wizard, his familiar form melting away, his white hair turning gray and thinning to wild wings over his ears and his beard disappearing altogether. As soon as his blue robes turned brownish-yellow, the three understood, and as one, they looked down the hallway to see the dead duke now wearing the form of Brind’Amour.
The wizard clapped his hands together and the door, swollen by Praehotec’s magic, shrunk and fell open before the blows of the cyclopians, led by Paragor’s lacky, Thowattle. The brutes skidded to a stop, overwhelmed by the grisly scene, two dead cyclopians, three mutilated humans and one halfling, and a mess of bubbling green and gray slime.
“Master?” Thowattle asked, regarding Brind’Amour.
“It is over,” Brind’Amour replied, his voice sounding like Paragor’s.
“I will clean it at once, my master!” Thowattle promised, turning to leave.
“No time!” Brind’Amour snapped, stopping the one-armed brute in its tracks. “Assemble the militia! At once! These spies wagged their tongues before I finished with them and told me that a force has indeed gathered at Malpuissant’s Wall.”
The three friends, lying still on the floor, had no idea of what the old wizard was doing.
“At once!” Thowattle agreed. “I will have servants come in to clean . . .”
“They stay with me!” Brind’Amour roared, and he waggled his fingers at the three prone friends and began a soft chant. Luthien, Oliver, and Katerin soon felt a compulsion in their muscles, and heard a telepathic plea from their wizard friend asking them to follow along and trust. Up they stood, one by one, appearing as zombies.
“What better torment for the doomed fools of Eriador than to see their heroes as undead slaves of their enemy?” the fake duke asked, and Thowattle, always a lover of the macabre, smiled wickedly. The brute gave a curt bow and its cyclopian companions followed suit. Then they were gone, and Brind’Amour, with a wave of his hand, closed the door behind them and swelled it shut once more.
“What was that about?” Oliver asked incredulously, for a moment, even wondering if this was really Brind’Amour, and not Paragor, standing in the hall.
“Glen Durritch,” Brind’Amour explained. “Even as we sit here and banter, our army, under Siobahn’s direction, has taken the high ground all about Glen Durritch. My excited cyclopian fool will give orders to double-time to Malpuissant’s Wall, to meet with the Eriadorans there.”
“And the Princetown garrison will be slaughtered in the glen,” Luthien reasoned.
“Better than fighting them when they’re behind city walls,” the devious wizard added. Brind’Amour looked back at Oliver. “You and I once spoke of your value to Eriador beyond the battles,” he said, and Oliver nodded, though Luthien and Katerin had no idea of what the two were talking about.
“The time has come,” Brind’Amour insisted, “though I will need the rest of the night to recuperate and regain any measure of my magical powers.”
Brind’Amour looked closely at Estabrooke then, and sighed deeply, truly pained by the sight. He had spoken with the cavalier at length over the last couple of days, and was not surprised when Estabrooke had insisted on sitting beside him, waiting in case the magical tunnel should open. Brind’Amour hadn’t hesitated in the least about letting the knight accompany him, fully trusting the man, realizing the goodness that guided the knight’s every action. Estabrooke’s death was a huge loss to Eriador and to all the world, but Brind’Amour took heart that the man had redeemed his actions on behalf of the evil Paragor, had seen the truth and acted accordingly.
“Come,” Brind’Amour said at length, “let us see what niceties Paragor’s palace has to offer to four weary travelers.”
DIPLOMACY
Luthien didn’t know how to approach her. She sat quiet and very still on the bed in the room she had commandeered, across the hall and down one door from Duke Paragor’s bedchamber. She had let him in without argument, but also without enthusiasm.
So now the young Bedwyr stood by the closed door, studying Katerin O’Hale, this woman he had known since he was a boy, and yet whom he had never really seen before. She had cleaned up from the fight and wore only a light satin shift now, black and lacy, that she had found in a wardrobe. It was low cut, and really too small for her, riding high on her smooth legs.
An altogether alluring outfit on one as beautiful as Katerin, but there was nothing inviting about the way the woman sat now, back straight, hands resting in her lap, impassive, indifferent.
She had not been wounded badly in the fight and had not suffered at the hands of Duke Paragor. No doubt the abduction had been traumatic, but certainly Katerin had been through worse. Since the fight, though, after those first few moments of elation, the woman had become quiet and distant. She had reacted to Luthien as her savior for just a moment, then moved away from him and kept away from him.
She was afraid, Luthien knew, and probably just as afraid that he would come to her this night as that he would not. Until this moment, Luthien had not truly considered the implications of his relationship with Siobahn. Katerin’s jealousy, her sudden outburst that night at the Dwelf, had been an exciting thing for Luthien, a flattering thing. But those outbursts were gone now, replaced by a resignation in the woman, a stealing of her spirit, that Luthien could not stand to see.
“I care for Si
obahn,” he began, searching for some starting point. Katerin looked away.
“But not as I love you,” the young man quickly added, taking a hopeful stride forward.
Katerin did not turn back to him.
“Do you understand?” Luthien asked.
No response.
“I have to make you understand,” he said emphatically. “When I was in Montfort . . . I needed . . .”
He paused as Katerin did turn back, her green eyes rimmed with tears; her jaw tightened.
“Siobahn is my friend and nothing more,” Luthien said.
Katerin’s expression turned sour.
“She was more than my friend,” Luthien admitted. “And I do not regret . . .” Again he paused, seeing that he was going in the wrong direction. “I do regret hurting you,” he said softly. “And if I have done irreparable harm to our love, then I shall forever grieve, and then all of this, the victories and the glory, shall be a hollow thing.”
“You are the Crimson Shadow,” Katerin said evenly.
“I am Luthien Bedwyr,” the young man corrected. “Who loves Katerin O’Hale, only Katerin O’Hale.”
Katerin did not blink, did not offer any response, verbal or otherwise. A long, uncomfortable moment passed, and then Luthien, defeated, turned toward the door.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, and went out into the hall.
He was down at the other end, nearing his door, when Katerin called out his name behind him. He turned and saw her standing there, just outside of her door, tall and beautiful and with a hint of a smile on her fairest of faces.
He moved back to her slowly, guardedly, not wanting to push her too far, not wanting to scare her away from whatever course she had chosen.
“Don’t go,” she said to him, and she took his hand and pulled him close. “Don’t ever go.”
From a door across the hall, barely cracked open, a teary-eyed Oliver watched the scene. “Ah, to be young and in Princetown in the spring,” the sentimental halfling said as he closed his door after Luthien and Katerin had disappeared.