The Crimson Shadow Page 8

  “Father,” Luthien admitted.

  Oliver tried to respond, but nearly choked instead. “And you are out here on the road—for sport!” the halfling reasoned. In Gascony, where Oliver had spent most of his life, it was not uncommon for the rowdy children of nobles to get into all sorts of trouble, including ambushing merchants on the road, knowing that their family connections would keep them free. “Draw your sword, you silly little boy!” the halfling cried, and out whipped his rapier and his main gauche. “I so much do not approve!”

  “Oliver!” Luthien replied, swinging Riverdancer about to put some ground between himself and the fuming halfling. “What are you talking about?” As the halfling turned his pony to pursue, Luthien grudgingly drew his weapon.

  “You bring disgrace to every reputable highwayman in all the land!” the halfling went on. “What need have you of co-ins and jew-wels?” Threadbare sidled up close to Riverdancer, and the halfling, though he was sitting at only about half Luthien’s height and could barely reach the man’s vital areas, thrust forward his rapier.

  Luthien’s sword intercepted the weapon and turned it aside. Oliver countered with a rapid series of thrusts, feints and cuts, even slipping in a deceptive jab with the main gauche.

  Skilled Luthien defeated every move, kept his balance perfect and his sword in proper defensive posture.

  “But it is a game for the son of an eorl,” Oliver remarked sarcastically. “He is too bored in his daily duties of cowering his subjects.” The thrusts became fiercer still, Oliver apparently going for a kill.

  That last line got to Luthien, though, insulted him and insulted his father, who had never acted in such a way. He rocked back in his saddle, letting Oliver play out his fury, then came on with an attack routine of his own, slapping the rapier out wide and swiping his sword across fiercely. Oliver’s main gauche intercepted, and the halfling squealed, thinking that he could send Luthien’s weapon flying, as he had done to the cyclopian.

  Luthien was quicker than that brute, and he turned his blade before Oliver could twist the trapping dagger, nearly taking the main gauche from the halfling’s hand and freeing the sword so that it could complete its swing.

  Oliver’s great hat fell to the ground, and both the halfling and Luthien knew that Oliver’s head would have still been inside if Luthien had so desired.

  A tug on the reins sent Threadbare back several feet, putting some distance between the combatants. “I could be wrong,” the halfling admitted.

  “You are wrong,” Luthien answered sternly. “You could find fault with Gahris Bedwyr, that I do not doubt. He does not follow his heart if that course would go against the edicts of King Greensparrow, or the duke of Montfort, or any of the duke’s many emissaries. But on pain of death, never again speak of Gahris as a tyrant!”

  “I said I could be wrong,” Oliver replied soberly.

  “As for me . . .” Luthien went on, his voice subdued, for he was not sure of how to proceed. What of me? he wondered. What had happened this day? It all seemed a surrealistic blur to the suddenly confused Luthien.

  For once, Oliver remained silent and let the young man sort out his thoughts, understanding that whatever Luthien might have to say could be important—both to Oliver and to Luthien.

  “I no longer claim any of the rights that accompany the name of Bedwyr,” Luthien said firmly. “I have fled my house, leaving the corpse of a cyclopian guardsman behind. And now I have chosen my course.” He held his sword up before him, letting its fine blade shine in the sun, though it was still a bit stained with the blood of the merchant’s guard. “I am as much an outlaw as are you, Oliver deBurrows,” Luthien proclaimed. “An outlaw in a land ruled by an outlaw king. Thus will my sword swing for justice.”

  Oliver raised his own rapier in like salute and outwardly proclaimed his agreement. He thought Luthien a silly little boy, though, who didn’t understand either the rules or the dangers of the road. Justice? Oliver nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Luthien’s sword might swing for justice, but Oliver’s rapier jabbed for profit. Still, the young man was a mighty ally—Oliver couldn’t deny that. And, Oliver mused, lending some credibility to the smile he was showing to Luthien, if justice was truly Luthien’s priority, then more of the profits might fall Oliver’s way.

  Suddenly, the highwayhalfling was beginning to think that this arrangement might not be so temporary. “I accept your explanation,” he said. “And I apologize for my too rash actions.” He went to tip his hat again, then realized that it was lying on the ground. Luthien saw it, too, and started to move for it, but Oliver waved him back. Leaning low off the side of his saddle, the halfling tipped his rapier low, slipping the point in under the hat. A flick and twist brought the hat spinning atop the rapier’s tip as Oliver lifted the weapon. He thrust it up, then jerked his rapier away, and the hat dropped in a spin, landing perfectly atop the halfling’s head.

  Luthien sat amazed, answering Oliver’s smug smile with a shake of his head.

  “But we are not safe on the island, fellow outlaw,” Oliver said, his expression turning serious. “That merchant-type knew me, or of me, and expected me. He was probably on his way to your own father to organize a hunt for Oliver deBurrows.” The halfling paused and snorted. He looked at Luthien and his chuckle became a full-blown laugh.

  “Oh, wonderful irony!” Oliver cried. “He goes to the eorl for assistance, while the eorl’s own son comes to my assistance!” Oliver’s laughter continued to grow, and Luthien joined in, more to be polite than with any real feelings of mirth.

  They did not make the ferry that afternoon, as Luthien had hoped. He explained to Oliver that the ferries would not cross the choppy seas at night. In the darkness, the island spotters could not see if any dorsal whales had come into the narrow channels. A description of the ten-ton man-eaters was all that Oliver needed to be convinced that they should forgo plans to be off the island that same day and set up their camp.

  Luthien sat up long into the night in the drizzle beside the hissing and smoking low campfire. To the side, Threadbare and Riverdancer stood quietly, heads bowed, and across the fire, Oliver snored contentedly.

  The young man huddled under his blanket, warding off the chill. He still could not believe all that had happened over the last few days: Garth Rogar, his brother, the cyclopian guardsman, and now the attack on the merchant wagon. It remained unreal to Luthien; he felt as if he had fallen into a river of uncontrollable events and was simply being swept along in their tide.

  No, not uncontrollable, Luthien finally decided. Undeniable. The world, as it turned out, was not as he had been brought up to expect it to be. Perhaps his last actions in Dun Varna—his decision to leave and his fight with the cyclopian—had been some sort of passage into adulthood, an awakening for the naive child of a noble house.

  Perhaps, but Luthien knew that he still had no solid answers. He knew, too, that he had followed his heart both in Dun Varna and when he had seen Oliver’s fight with the merchant’s guards. He had followed his heart, and out there, on the road, in the drizzle of a chill August night, Luthien had little else to guide him.

  The next day was similarly gray and wet, but the companions made good time out of their encampment. Soon the smell of salt water filled their nostrils and put a tang in their mouths.

  “If the day was clear,” Luthien explained, “we could see the northern spurs of the Iron Cross from here.”

  “How do you know?” Oliver asked him sarcastically. “Have you ever had a clear day on this island?” The banter was light and so were their hearts (Oliver’s always seemed to be!). Luthien felt somehow relieved that day, as though he would find his freedom when he crossed the narrow channel and stepped onto Eriador’s mainland. The wide world beckoned.

  But first, they had to get across.

  From the top of a rocky bluff, the two got their first view of the Diamondgate Ferry, and of the mainland across the narrow channel. The place was called Diamondgate for a small, diamond-
shaped isle, a lump of wet black rock in the middle of the channel, halfway between the shores.

  Two flat, open barges sat at the ends of long wooden wharves whose supporting beams were as thick as ancient oaks. Off to the side loomed the remains of the older wharves, equally well constructed, their demise a testament to the power of the sea.

  The barges, including the two now moored across the channel, had originally been designed and built by the dwarves of the Iron Cross more than three hundred years before, and had been meticulously maintained (and replaced, when the rocks or the currents or a dorsal whale took one) by the islanders ever since. Their design was simple and effective: an open, flat landing for cargo and travelers, anchored at each corner by thick beams that arched up to a central point ten feet above the center of the landing. Here the beams connected to a long metal tube, and through this ran the thick rope that guided the ferry back and forth. A large gear showed on each side of the tube, its notches reaching in through slits along the tube’s side. A crank on the deck turned a series of gears leading to these two, which in turn caught the knots on the rope and pulled the ferry along the taut cord’s length. The beauty of the system was that, because of the marvelous dwarven gearing, a single strong man could pull the ferry even if it was heavily laden.

  But still the crossing was always dangerous. The water this day, as every day, showed white tips on its bouncing waves and abundant rocks, especially near to Diamondgate, where the ferries could dock if they encountered any trouble.

  One of the barges was always inoperable, taken down so that its guide rope could be replaced, or when its floor planking needed shoring up. Several dozen men worked long days at Diamondgate just to keep the place in operation.

  “They are planning to shut down that one,” Luthien, familiar with the operation, informed Oliver, pointing to the barge on the north. “And it seems as if the other is about to leave. We must hurry, or wait perhaps hours for the next barge to cross over.” He gave a ticking sound to Riverdancer, and the horse started down the path leading to the landings.

  A few minutes later, Threadbare pranced up alongside and Oliver grabbed Luthien’s arm, indicating that he should slow the pace.

  “But the ferry—” Luthien started to protest.

  “There is an ambush about,” Oliver explained.

  Luthien stared at him incredulously, then looked back to the landing. More than a score of men moved down there, but just a pair of cyclopians, these showing no weapons and appearing as simple travelers waiting to cross. This was not common, Luthien knew, for there were few cyclopians on Bedwydrin, and those were only merchant guards or his father’s own. Still, under the edicts of King Greensparrow, cyclopians were allowed free passage as citizens of Avon, and affairs at Diamondgate did not seem so out of place.

  “You have to learn to smell such things,” Oliver remarked, recognizing the young man’s doubts. Luthien shrugged and gave in, moving along the path at as fast a pace as Oliver would allow.

  The two cyclopians, and many of the men, spotted the companions when they were about a hundred feet from the landing, but none made any gestures or even called out to indicate that the two might have been expected. Oliver, though, slowed a bit more, his eyes darting this way and that from under the brim of his hat.

  A horn blew, indicating that all should move back from the end of the wharf as the barge was about to pull out. Luthien started forward immediately, but Oliver held him in check.

  “They are leaving,” Luthien protested in a harsh whisper.

  “Easy,” Oliver implored him. “Make them think that we intend to simply wait for the next crossing.”

  “Make who think?” Luthien argued.

  “You see those barrels along the wharf?” Oliver asked. Luthien swung his gaze about and Oliver squeezed hard on his forearm. “Do not be so obvious!” the halfling scolded softly.

  Luthien sighed and subtly looked at the casks Oliver had mentioned. There was a long line of them; they had probably come from the mainland and were waiting for a caravan to claim them.

  “They are marked with an X,” Oliver remarked.

  “Wine,” Luthien explained.

  “If they are wine, then why do so many have open bungholes?” the alert halfling asked. Luthien looked more closely, and sure enough, saw that every third barrel had a small, open hole in it, minus its bung.

  “And if those cyclopians on the landing are simply travelers,” Oliver went on, “then why are they not on the departing barge?”

  Luthien sighed again, this time revealing that he was starting to follow, and agree with, the halfling’s line of reasoning.

  “Can your horse jump?” Oliver asked calmly.

  Luthien noted that the barge was slowly moving away from the wharf and understood what the halfling was thinking.

  “I will tell you when to break,” Oliver assured him. “And do kick a barrel into the water if you get the chance as you pass!”

  Luthien felt his adrenaline building, felt the same tingling and butterflies in the stomach that he got when he stepped into the arena. There was little doubt in the young man’s mind that life beside Oliver deBurrows would not be boring!

  They walked their mounts easily onto the boards of the thirty-foot wharf, passing two workers without incident. A third man, one of the cargo workers, approached them smiling.

  “Next barge is an hour before the noon,” he explained cheerily, and he pointed to a small shed, starting to explain where the travelers could rest and take a meal while they waited.

  “Too long!” Oliver cried suddenly, and off leaped Threadbare, Riverdancer charging right behind. Men dove out of the way; the two visible cyclopians shouted and scrambled, producing short swords from under their cloaks. As Oliver had predicted, every third barrel began to move, lids popping off and falling aside as cyclopians jumped out.

  But the two companions had gained surprise. Riverdancer sprang past Oliver’s pony and blasted past the two cyclopians, hurling them aside. Oliver moved Threadbare to the edge of the wharf, along the row of barrels, and managed to bump more than a few as he rushed by, spinning them into the drink.

  The slow-moving ferry was fifteen feet out when Luthien got to the end of the wharf, no great leap for powerful Riverdancer, and the young man held on tight as he soared across.

  Oliver came next, sitting high and waving his hat in one hand as Threadbare flew across, coming to a kicking and skidding stop, banging into Riverdancer atop the smooth wooden barge. Back on the wharf, a dozen cyclopians shouted protests and waved their weapons, but Oliver, more wary than his less-experienced companion, paid them no heed. The halfling swung down from his mount, his weapons coming out to meet the advance of a cyclopian that suddenly appeared from among the piles of cargo.

  The rapier and main gauche waved in a dizzying blur, a precise and enchanting dance of steel, though they seemed to come nowhere near to hitting the halfling’s opponent. The cyclopian gawked at the display, sincerely impressed. But when the flurry was done, the brute was not hurt at all. Its one eye looked down to its leather tunic, though, and saw that the halfling had cut an “O” into it in a fine cursive script.

  “I could write my whole name,” Oliver remarked. “And I assure you, I have a very long name!”

  With a growl of rage, the cyclopian lifted its heavy ax, and Oliver promptly dove forward, running right between its wide-spread legs and spinning about to poke the brute in the rump with his rapier.

  “I would taunt you again,” the halfling proclaimed, “but I see that you are too stupid to know that you are being taunted!”

  The cyclopian howled and turned, then instinctively looked ahead again just in time to see Luthien’s fist soaring into its face. Oliver meanwhile had retracted the rapier and rushed ahead, driving his shoulder into the back of the cyclopian’s knees. Over went the brute, launched by Luthien’s punch, to land heavily, flat on its back. It struggled for just a moment, then lay still.

  A splash made Luthien tu
rn around. The cyclopians on the wharf had taken up spears now and were hurling them out at the barge. “Tell the captain to get this ferry moving,” Oliver said calmly to Luthien as he walked past. He handed Luthien a small pouch of coins. “And do pay the man.” Oliver walked to the stern of the ferry, apparently unconcerned with the continuing spear volley.

  “You sniffers of barnyard animals!” he taunted. “Stupid oafs who poke their own eyes when trying to pick their noses!”

  The cyclopians howled and picked up their throwing pace.

  “Oliver!” Luthien cried.

  The halfling turned to regard him. “They have but one eye,” he explained. “No way to gauge depth. Do you not know that cyclopians cannot throw?”

  He turned about, laughing, then shouted, “Hello!” and jumped straight up as a spear stuck into the deck right between his legs.

  “You could be wrong,” Luthien said, imitating the halfling’s accent and stealing Oliver’s usual line.

  “Even one-eyes can get lucky,” the halfling replied indignantly, with a snap of his green-gloved fingers. And to prove confidence in his point, he launched a new stream of taunts at the brutes on the wharf.

  “What is this about?” an old, weather-beaten man demanded, grabbing Luthien by the shoulder. “I’ll not have—”

  He stopped when Luthien handed him the pouch of coins.

  “All right, then,” the man said. “But tether those horses, or it’s your own loss!”

  Luthien nodded and the wiry old man went back to the crank.

  The ferry moved painfully slowly for the anxious companions, foot by foot across the choppy dark waters of the channel where the Avon Sea met the Dorsal. They saw cyclopians scrambling back on the wharf, trying to get the other ferry out of its dock and set off in pursuit. Luthien wasn’t too concerned, for he knew that the boats, geared for solid and steady progress across the dangerous waters, could not be urged on any faster. He and Oliver had a strong lead on their pursuers, and Riverdancer and Threadbare would hit the ground across the way running, putting a mile or more behind them before the cyclopians stepped off their ferry.