"Let me guess," Oliver said dryly. "You are A'ta'arrefi?"

The creature was not large, no more than four feet from head to tail, but its aura, that sensation of might that surrounded every demon, was nearly overwhelming. Luthien and Oliver had battled enough of the fiends to know that they were in serious trouble, a fact made all the more obvious when A'ta'arrefi opened wide its fanged maw, wide enough, it seemed, to swallow Oliver whole!

Above them all, a bolt of lightning crackled through the rushing black clouds, a fitting touch, it seemed, to this hellish scenario. The sudden light showed the companions that cyclopians were all about them now, fanning out in the woods and keeping a respectable distance, whispering that this was the Crimson Shadow.

Luthien hardly gave the brutes a thought, focusing, as he had to, on the caninelike demon.

Out of that huge maw came a forked tongue, a hissing bark, and A'ta'arrefi, with speed that stunned the companions, leaped forward, dancing in the unholy symphony of the angry storm.

Oliver screamed. Luthien did, too, and raised Blind-Striker, Blind-Striker, though he knew that he could not be quick enough to intercept the charge. though he knew that he could not be quick enough to intercept the charge.

And then he was blinded, and so was Oliver, and so were the cyclopians, as a lightning stroke came down right in front of him. Luthien felt his muscles jerking wildly, felt his hair dancing, and realized that he had been lifted right off the ground by the terrific impact. Somehow he came back down on his feet and held his tentative balance, though he soon enough realized that, with the demon charging, he might have been wiser to fall to the side.

But the expected attack never came, and Luthien heard before he saw, that battle had been joined in the woods about him. He heard the twang of elvish bows, the thunder of a dwarven charge, the cries of surprised and quickly dying cyclopians.

Finally, Luthien's vision cleared, and he saw that A'ta'arrefi was no more-no more than a blackened forked tongue lying on the ground at Luthien's feet.

As abrupt as the lightning bolt came the downpour, a torrent of rain hissing through the trees. Luthien pulled the hood of his crimson cape over his head, purely an instinctual movement, made with hardly a thought, for the young man was surely dazed.

Resmore's groan brought Luthien back to the situation at hand. He shook the dizziness from his head and turned to the prone duke. He couldn't stifle a burst of laughter as he spotted Oliver, sitting beside the man, the halfling's usually curly hair straightened and standing on end.

"Boom," the foppish halfling muttered and toppled to lie across the duke. The jarring woke the man.

Luthien skidded down atop him to hold him in place.

"I will deliver you personally to King Greensparrow," the dazed and drunken Resmore slurred.

Luthien slugged him again to silence him, and when the man went still, Luthien lay atop the pile, spreading his shielding crimson cape to hide them all. He wanted to get up and join in the fight, but he understood the importance of his inaction, both to safeguard his all-valuable prisoner and to ensure that the magic-wielder could not wake up again and get into the fray.

Besides, Luthien soon realized, it was all going the way of the dwarfs and elves. Vengeance fueled the chopping axes and pounding hammers, and none could fight better in the darkness than elves, and none were better with deadly bows. The cyclopians had been caught by surprise, and even worse for them, they had been sitting within a brightly lit encampment and were now perfectly blind to the night.

Luthien thought he would have to fight, though, when he heard one terrified one-eye come rushing out of the brush, sloshing through the growing mud puddles, running straight for the unseen pile of bodies. The young Bedwyr turned slowly, so as not to give up the camouflage, and he spotted the cyclopian, looking back desperately over its shoulder, at about the same instant it ran smack into Resmore's repelling shield.

Back the one-eye flew, meeting up with a pair of dwarfs as they burst out of the brush.

"I didn't think he'd have the guts to charge!" one of the dwarfs roared, coming to his feet and promptly bringing his axe into the stunned cyclopian's backbone.

"Nor did myself!" howled the other, caving in the one-eye's skull with his heavy hammer.

"His children should be proud!" the first dwarf proclaimed.

"His children should be orphans!" cried the second, and off they ran, happily, looking for more one-eyes to smack.

Luthien eased his head back down, shifted himself more completely under the cape. It was better to stay out of this one, he decided.

CHAPTER 13.

EVIDENCE AND E ERROR P PAST.

THE RETURN TO CAER MACDONALD was heralded by cries of vengeance sated and by trumpets blowing triumphantly along the city's walls. Word of their victory had preceded Luthien and his forces, as well as the whispers that a wizard, one of Avon's dukes, had been captured in the battle. was heralded by cries of vengeance sated and by trumpets blowing triumphantly along the city's walls. Word of their victory had preceded Luthien and his forces, as well as the whispers that a wizard, one of Avon's dukes, had been captured in the battle.

Luthien and Oliver flanked Resmore every step of the way, with weapons drawn and ready. The duke hadn't said much; not a word, in fact, other than a stream of threats, invoking the name of Greensparrow often, as though that alone should send his captors into a fit of trembling. He was tightly bound, and often gagged, but even with that, Luthien held Blind-Striker Blind-Striker dangerously near to the man's throat, for the young Bedwyr, more experienced than he wanted to be with the likes of wizard-dukes, would take no chances with this man. Luthien had no desire to face A'ta'arrefi, or any other demon again, nor would he let Resmore, his proof that Greensparrow was not honoring the truce, get away. dangerously near to the man's throat, for the young Bedwyr, more experienced than he wanted to be with the likes of wizard-dukes, would take no chances with this man. Luthien had no desire to face A'ta'arrefi, or any other demon again, nor would he let Resmore, his proof that Greensparrow was not honoring the truce, get away.

Men, women, and many, many children lined the avenues as the victorious procession entered Caer MacDonald. Siobhan and Shuglin led the way, with the elvish Cutters in a line behind their leader, and twenty dwarfs following Shuglin. In the middle of this powerful force walked Luthien, Oliver, and their most valuable prisoner. Another score of dwarfs took up the rear, closely guarding the dozen ragged cyclopian prisoners. If the bearded folk had been given their way, all the cyclopians would have been slaughtered in the mountains, but Luthien and Siobhan had convinced them that prisoners might prove crucial now, for all the politics of the land. Aside from these forty soldiers returning to Caer MacDonald, the rest of the bearded folk, along with another dozen cyclopian prisoners, had remained in the Iron Cross, making their way to DunDarrow to bring word of the victory to King Bellick dan Burso.

Cheers accompanied the procession every step along the main way of Caer MacDonald; many tossed silver coins or offered fine wine or ale, or plates heaped with food.

Oliver basked in the moment, even standing atop his pony's back at one point, dipping a low bow, his great hat sweeping. Luthien tried to remain vigilant and stoic, but couldn't contain his smile. At the front of the column, though, Siobhan and Shuglin paid the crowd little heed. These two exemplified the suffering of their respective races at the hands of Greensparrow. Shuglin's folk, those who had been caught, had long been enslaved, working as craftsmen for the elite ruling and merchant classes until they outlived their usefulness, or gave their masters some excuse to send them to torturous labor in the mines. Siobhan's folk had fared no better in the last two decades. Elves were not numerous in Avonsea-most had fled the isles for parts unknown many years before Greensparrow's rise-but those who were caught during the reign of the evil king were given to wealthy homes as servants and concubines. Siobhan, with blood that was neither purely elven nor purely human, was on the lowest rung of all in Greensparrow's racial hierarchy, and had spent many years in the service of a merchant tyrant who had beaten and raped her at will.

So these two were not smiling, and would not rejoice. For Luthien, victory had come when Eriador was declared free; for Shuglin and Siobhan, victory meant the head of Greensparrow, staked up high on a pole.

Nothing less.

King Brind'Amour met them in the plaza surrounding the Ministry. Purposefully, the king made his way past Siobhan and Shuglin, holding up his hand to indicate that they should wait to tell their tale. Down the line he went, his eyes locked on one man in particular, and he stopped when he came face-to-face with the prisoner.

Brind'Amour reached up and pulled the gag from the man's mouth.

"He is a wizard," Luthien warned.

"His name is Resmore," Oliver added.

"One of Greensparrow's dukes?" Brind'Amour asked the man, but Resmore merely "harrumphed" indignantly and lifted his fat face in defiance.

"He wore this," Oliver explained, handing the expensive cap over to his king. "It was not so much a trick for me to take it from him."

Luthien's sour expression was not unexpected, and Oliver purposefully kept his gaze fixed on his king.

Brind'Amour took the hat and turned it in his hands, studying the emblem: a ship's prow carved into the likeness of a rearing stallion, nostrils flared, eyes wild. "Newcastle," the Eriadoran king said calmly. "You are Duke Resmore of Newcastle."

"Friend of Greensparrow, who is king of all Avonsea!" a flustered Resmore replied.

"And king of Gascony, I am so sure," Oliver added sarcastically.

"Not by treaty," Brind'Amour reminded Resmore calmly, the old wizard smiling at the duke's slip. "Our agreement proclaims Greensparrow as king of Avon and Brind'Amour as king of Eriador. Or is it that you deem the treaty immaterial?"

Resmore was sweating visibly now, realizing his error. "I only meant . . ." he stammered, and then he stopped. He took a deep breath to steady himself and lifted his chin proudly once more. "You have no right to hold me," he declared.

"You were captured fairly," Oliver remarked. "By me."

"Unlawfully!" Resmore protested. "I was in the mountains, by all rights, in land neutral to our respective kingdoms!"

"You were on the Eriadoran side of the Iron Cross," Brind'Amour reminded him. "Not twenty miles from Caer MacDonald."

"I know of no provisions in our treaty that would prevent-" Resmore began.

"You were with the cyclopians," Luthien promptly interrupted.

"Again, by word of the treaty-"

"Damn your treaty!" Luthien shouted, though Brind'Amour tried to calm him. "The one-eyes have been raiding our villages, murdering innocents, even children. At the prompting of your wretched king, I say!"

A hundred voices lifted in accord with the young Bedwyr's proclamation, but Brind'Amour's was not among them. Again the king of Eriador, skilled in matters politic, worked hard to quiet them all, fearing that a mob would form and his prisoners would be hanged before he could gather his evidence.

"Since when do one-eyes need the prompting of a human king to raid and pillage?" Resmore sarcastically asked.

"We can prove that this very band you were captured beside was among those participating in raids," Brind'Amour said.

"Of which I know nothing," Resmore replied coolly. "I have only been with them a few days, and they have not left the mountains in that time-until you illegally descended upon them. Who is the raider now?"

Brind'Amour's blue eyes flared dangerously at that last remark. "Pretty words, Duke Resmore," he said grimly. "But worthless, I assure you. Magic was used in the massacre known as Sougles's Glen; its tracings can still be felt by those attuned to such powers."

Brind'Amour's not-so-subtle proclamation that he, too, was a wizard seemed to unnerve the man more than a little.

"Your role in the attacks can be proven," Brind'Amour went on, "and a wizard's neck is no more resistant to the rope than is a peasant's."

The mob exploded with screams for the man's death, by hanging or burning, or whatever method could be quickly expedited. Many seemed ready to break ranks and beat the man. Brind'Amour would hear none of it, though. He motioned for Luthien and the others to take Resmore and the cyclopians into the Ministry, where they were put into separate dungeons. Resmore was assigned two personal guards, elves, who were quite sensitive to magic, who stood over the man continually, swords drawn and ready.

"We should thank you for your role in the capture," Luthien remarked to Brind'Amour, walking the passageways along the smaller side rooms in the great structure beside Oliver and their king.

"Oh yes," Oliver piped in. "A so-very-fine shot!"

Brind'Amour slowed enough to stare at his companions, his expression showing that he did not understand.

"In the mountains," Luthien clarified. "When Resmore called in his demon."

"You faced yet another hellish fiend?" Brind'Amour asked.

"Until your so booming bolt of lightning," Oliver replied. "On came the beast for Luthien-he would not approach my rapier blade, you see."

"A'ta'arrefi, the demon was called," Luthien interrupted, not willing to hear Oliver's always-skewed perspective.

Still Brind'Amour seemed not to understand.

"He resembled a dog," Luthien added, "though he walked upright, as a man."

"And his tongue was forked," Oliver added, and it took the halfling's two companions a moment to decipher that last word, which Oliver's thick Gascon accent made sound as though it were two separate words, "for-ked." The halfling's gesture helped in the translation, for he put two wiggling fingers up in front of his mouth.

Brind'Amour shrugged.

"Your lightning bolt," Luthien insisted. "It could not have been mere chance!"

"Say it plainly, my boy," the wizard begged.

"Resmore's demon ran for us," Luthien replied. "He was but five paces from me when the storm broke, a sting of lightning rushing down."

"Boom!" Oliver yelled. "Right on the head."

"And all that was left of A'ta'arrefi was his blackened tongue," said Luthien.

"For-ked," Oliver finished.

Brind'Amour rubbed his white beard briskly. He had no idea of what the two were talking about, for he hadn't even been looking that way; Brind'Amour had been so engrossed with events in the east and south that he had no idea Luthien and Oliver had even gone into the mountains with Siobhan, let alone that they were facing a demon! Still, it seemed perfectly impossible to him that the lightning bolt was a natural accident. Luthien and Oliver were lucky indeed, but that was too far-fetched. Obviously a wizard had been involved. Perhaps it was even Greensparrow himself, aiming for Luthien and hitting Resmore's fiend by mistake. "Yes, of course," was all that he said to the two. "A fine shot, that. Demons are easy targets, though; stand out among mortals like a giant among halflings."

Luthien managed a weak smile, not convinced that Brind'Amour was speaking truthfully. The young Bedwyr had no other explanation, though, and so he let it go at that. If there was something amiss, magically speaking, then it would be Brind'Amour's concern, and not his own.

"Come," the wizard bade, moving down a side passage. "We have perhaps found the link between Greensparrow and the cyclopians, thus our treaty with Avon may be deemed void. Let us draw up the truce with King Asmund of Isenland and begin to lay our plans."

"We will fight Greensparrow?" Luthien asked bluntly.

"I do not yet know," Brind'Amour replied. "I must speak with our prisoners, and with the ambassador from Gascony. There is much to do before any final decisions can be made."

Of course there was, Luthien realized, but the young Bedwyr held faith then that he would not be battling against his brother. Greensparrow's treacherous hand had been revealed in full; Resmore was all the proof they needed. Visions of sailing the fleet up the Stratton into Carlisle beside the Huegoth longships danced in Luthien's mind.

It was not an unpleasant fantasy.

Brind'Amour entered the dimly lit room solemnly, wearing his rich blue wizard robes. Candles burned softly from pedestals in each of the room's corners. In the center was a small round table and a single stool.

Brind'Amour took his place on the stool. With trembling hands, he reached up and removed the cloth draped over the single object on the table, his crystal ball. It was with trepidation and nervous excitement that the wizard began his incantation. Brind'Amour didn't believe that Greensparrow had launched a bolt for Luthien that had accidentally destroyed Resmore's familiar demon. In lieu of that, the old wizard could think of only one explanation for Luthien's incredible tale: one of his fellows from the ancient brotherhood of wizards had awakened and joined in the effort. What else might explain the lightning bolt?

The wizard fell into his trance, sent his sight through the ball, into the mountains, across the width and breadth of Eriador, then across the borders of time itself.

"Brind'Amour?"

The question came from far away, but was insistent.

"Brind'Amour?"

"Serendie?" the old wizard asked, thinking he had at last found one of his fellows, a jolly chap who had been among his closest of friends.

"Luthien," came the distant reply.

Brind'Amour searched his memory, trying to remember which wizard went by that vaguely familiar name. He felt a touch on his shoulder, and then was shaken.

Brind'Amour came out of his trance to find that he was in his divining room at the Ministry, with Luthien and Oliver standing beside him. He yawned and stretched, thoroughly drained from his night's work.

"What time?" he asked.

"The cock has crowed," Oliver remarked, "has eaten his morning meal, put a smile on the beaks of a few hen-types, and is probably settled for his afternoon nap!"

"We wondered where you were," Luthien explained.

"So where were you?" Oliver asked.