“I am Praehotec,” the beast said proudly. “Who was with Morkney when Morkney died.”
Paragor nodded—he had heard a similar tale from Kosnekalen. Kosnekalen had been more than happy to tell the tale in great detail, and Paragor had sensed that there was a great rivalry between the fiends.
“I was denied a pleasure then,” the evil Praehotec went on, barely sublimating its boiling rage. “I will not be denied that pleasure again.”
“You hate the Crimson Shadow,” Paragor reasoned.
“I will eat the heart of the Crimson Shadow,” Praehotec replied.
Paragor smiled wickedly. He knew just how to open that heart to the fiend.
Paragor’s vision had been narrowly focused on the events to the north of Princetown, in Glen Albyn and farther north, in Bronegan and the Fields of Eradoch, but that focus, those self-imposed blinders necessary for such divining, hadn’t allowed him a view to the northwest, into the mountains of the Iron Cross.
Shuglin stood tall in those mountains, watching to the east, toward the wall and the city of Princetown. He and his remaining kin, less than three hundred of the bearded folk, had gone out from Caer MacDonald when the army had marched, but had traveled south into the heart of the towering mountains, where the snow still lay thick, where winter had not yet relinquished its icy grasp. Shuglin had gone to guard the mountain passes, though the dwarf and Brind’Amour, who had sent him, knew that those passes would be blocked for more than a month still, and maybe longer than that.
Brind’Amour was the only non-dwarf who knew the real mission behind Shuglin’s dangerous march. That hope had been realized less than a week out from Caer MacDonald, in a deep, deep cavern high up from the city. For many years, the beleaguered dwarfs of Montfort, now Caer MacDonald, had heard rumors of their kin living free among the peaks of the Iron Cross. Most of the dwarfs were old enough to remember mountain dwarfs who had come into the city to trade in the days before Greensparrow, and one of the group, an old graybeard who had been enslaved in the mines since the earliest days of Greensparrow’s reign, claimed to be from that tribe, the descendants of Burso Ironhammer. That old graybeard had survived twenty years of hard labor in the mines, then the fierce battles of Montfort. It was he, not Shuglin, who had led the troupe into the snow-packed passes, through secret tunnels, and ultimately into the deep cave, the realm of Burso’s folk.
What Shuglin and the other city dwarfs found in that cavern made their hearts soar, made them know, for perhaps the first time, what it was to be a dwarf. Far below the snow-covered surface, in smoky tunnels filled more with shadow than light, the dwarfs had met their kin, their heritage. DunDarrow, the Ingot Shelf, the place was called, a complex of miles of tunnels and great underground caverns. Five thousand dwarfs lived and worked here, in perfect harmony with the stone that was the stuff of their very being. Shuglin looked upon treasures beyond anything he could imagine; piles of golden and silver artifacts, gleaming weapons, and suits of mail to rival those of the mightiest and wealthiest knights in all of the Avonsea Islands.
Though these were city dwarfs, they were welcomed with open arms by the king of the mines, Bellick dan Burso, and hundreds of the mountain folk gathered each night in several of the great halls to hear the tales of the battle, to hear of the Crimson Shadow and the victory in Montfort.
Now wrapped in thick furs, Shuglin stood on a high pass, waiting for King Bellick. The dwarf king, younger than Shuglin, with a fiery orange beard and eyebrows so bushy that they hung halfway over his blue eyes, was not tardy, and the eagerness of his step as he came onto the ledge gave Shuglin hope.
The city dwarf knew that he would be asking much of this king and his clan. Shuglin was glad that the king was a young dwarf, full of fire, and full of hatred for Greensparrow.
Bellick moved up to the ledge beside the blue-bearded dwarf and gave a nod of greeting. “We daresn’t trade with Montfort since the wizard-king took the throne,” Bellick said, something Shuglin had heard a hundred times in the two days he had been at DunDarrow.
Bellick gave a snort. “Many haven’t seen the outside-the-mountains land in score of years,” the dwarf king continued. “But we’re loving the inside-the-mountain land, so we’re contented.”
Shuglin looked at him, not quite believing that claim.
“Contented,” Bellick reiterated, and his voice didn’t match the meaning of the word. “But we’re not happy. Most have no desire to go out to the flatlands, but even they who are content are not liking the fact that we cannot go safely outside the mountains.”
“Prisoners in your own home,” Shuglin remarked.
Bellick nodded. “And we’re not liking the treatment of our kin.” He put his hand on Shuglin’s strong shoulder as he spoke.
“You will come with me, then,” the blue-bearded dwarf reasoned. “To the east.”
Bellick nodded again. “Another storm gathers over the mountains,” he said. “Winter will not let go. But we have ways of travel, underground ways, that will get us to the eastern edges of DunDarrow.”
Shuglin smiled, but tried hard to keep his emotions hidden. So perhaps he was not out of the fighting yet, he mused. He would return to Luthien and Siobhan’s side, with five thousand armed and armored dwarven warriors in his wake.
Luthien sat alone on the stump of a tree and let the melancholy afternoon seep into his mood. Oliver had been right, he knew. Over the last few weeks, Luthien had been running away from his emotions, first by sending Katerin to Port Charley, then by traipsing off with Oliver on the roundabout circuit to Glen Albyn. He could continue to justify his cowardice in the face of love by focusing on his bravery in the face of war.
But he did not. Not now. There was great excitement in the Eriadoran camp, with whispers that they would soon cross through Malpuissant’s Wall and march south, but for Luthien, the battle suddenly seemed secondary. He believed that they could win, could take Princetown and force Greensparrow to grant them their independence, but what then? Would he become king of Eriador?”
And if he did, would Katerin be his queen?
It all came inescapably back to that. Sitting on that tree stump, looking up at the indomitable Dun Caryth, dark against a gray sky that was fast fading to black as the sun dipped low, Luthien found himself at odds, caught somewhere between responsibilities to the kingdom and to himself. He wanted to be the Crimson Shadow, the leader of the rebellion, but he also wanted to be Luthien Bedwyr, son of an eorl on an island far to the north, fighting only bloodless battles in the arena and romping through the woods with Katerin O’Hale.
He had come so far, so fast, but the journey would not be worth the cost if that price included the loss of his love.
“Coward,” he berated himself, standing up and stretching. He turned about, facing the encampment, and started his march. He knew where Katerin would be, in a small tent across the way, on the northern edges of the wide camp, and he knew, too, that he had to face her now and put an end to his fear.
By the time he got to Katerin’s tent, the sun was gone. A single lantern burned inside the tent, and Luthien could see Katerin’s silhouette as she pulled off her leather jerkin. He watched that curvy shadow for a long while, full of admiration and passion. Siobhan was right, Luthien knew. He cared for the half-elf deeply, but this woman, Katerin, was his true love. When the wild rush of the rebellion was ended, even if they proved victorious, it would be a hollow win indeed for Luthien Bedwyr if Katerin would not stand with him.
He should go right into that tent and tell her that, he knew, but he could not. He walked off into the darkness, cursing himself, using every logical argument to try to overcome his fear.