R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

He had said it so casually, so ruthlessly.

“Yes, my King!” came the predictably eager reply. No cyclopian ever questioned an order to slaughter humans.

“And I warn you,” Greensparrow added, just before exiting the chamber through the back door, “if my vacation is interrupted, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Yes, my King,” Belsen’Krieg responded, and the cyclopian didn’t seem to be worried. Indeed, to the fearful old wizard watching from more than five hundred miles away, the cyclopian seemed to be rejoicing.

Brind’Amour cut the connection and leaned back in his chair. The crystal ball went dark, and so did the room, but the wizard didn’t command his enchanted candelabra to light.

He sat in the dark, considering the connection his enemies held with demons, a relationship that was apparently still very strong. Brind’Amour thought of the fateful decision of the brotherhood those many, many years ago. The cathedrals had been built, the islands knew peace, and few cared much for the wizards, old men and women all. Their time had passed, the brotherhood had decided—even the great dragons had been put down, destroyed or imprisoned in deep caves, as Brind’Amour and his fellows had sealed up Balthazar. Brind’Amour had lost his staff in that encounter, and so convinced was he that his time was ended, that he did not even try to regain it.

All of the brotherhood had gone to sleep, some to eternal rest. Others, such as Brind’Amour, sent themselves into a magical stasis in private castles or caves. All of them . . . except for Greensparrow. He had been only a minor wizard in the old days, but one who had apparently found a way to extend the time of wizards.

Brind’Amour had chosen stasis over death because he believed that one day he might be useful to the world once more. Thus, when he had gone to his magical slumber, he had enacted spells of alarm that would call to him when the day was dark. And so he had awoken, just a few years before, to find Greensparrow seated as king of Avon and deep in unholy alliances with demons.

Brind’Amour sat in the dark considering his enemies, both human and fiend. He sat in the dark, wondering if he had been wise to set Luthien, and Eriador, on such a collision course against such an enemy as this.

“It is not so deep,” Shuglin grumbled, the end of his blue beard slick with slime.

“I am not so tall,” Oliver retorted without hesitation.

The frustrated dwarf looked over to Luthien, who promptly hoisted the complaining halfling under one arm and struggled on through the ice and the muck.

“Oliver deBurrows, walking a sewer!” Oliver grumbled. “If I had known how low I would sink beside the likes of you . . .”

His complaint became a muffled groan as Luthien pitched suddenly to the side, slamming them both against the wall.

They came up apart, Oliver hopping to his feet and slapping at the muck on his blue pantaloons, crying “Ick! Ick! Ick!”

“We’re under the merchants,” Shuglin put in, his gravelly voice thick with sarcasm. “You probably should be quiet.”

Oliver cast a hopeless glance at Luthien, but he knew that his friend was more amused than sympathetic. And he knew, too, that his complaints were minor; in light of the importance of this day, even Oliver could not take them seriously. Only a week after the opening of the mines, the rescued dwarfs had shown their value, repairing old weapons and armor, fashioning new equipment, and opening up the sewers under the embattled merchant quarter. Now Luthien and Oliver, Shuglin and three hundred of his bearded kin, were creeping along several parallel routes and would come up right in the midst of their enemies.

Still, the halfling figured that he didn’t have to enjoy the journey. The lanterns lit the tunnels well enough, but they did nothing to ward off the dead cold. Ice lined the sewer tunnels and was thick about the floor’s rounded center, but there was fresh waste above the ice and it would take more than a freeze to defeat the awful stench of the place.

“They had barricaded the openings,” Shuglin explained, “but we got through in more than a dozen and killed four cyclopians who were nearby in the process.”

“None escaped to warn of our approach?” Luthien asked for the tenth time since the expedition had set out from the city’s lower section.

“Not a one,” Shuglin assured him, also for the tenth time.

“I would so enjoy marching through this muck only to find the enemy waiting for us,” Oliver added sarcastically.

Shuglin ignored him and took up the march again, moving swiftly down the straight tunnel. A few moments later, the dwarf stopped and signaled for those following to do likewise.

“We are found,” the dismal halfling said.

Shuglin took the lantern from another dwarf and held it high in front of the mouth of the passage. He nodded as a like signal came from across the intersection, and he poked his stubby thumb upward. “All in time,” the dwarf remarked, motioning for the others to move along once more.

They came into a small cubby at the side of the passage. A ladder—of new dwarfish construction—was secured against one wall, leading up a dozen feet to a wooden trapdoor.

Luthien motioned to Oliver. It had been agreed that the stealthy halfling would lead them out of the sewer, and Oliver was happy to oblige, happy to be out of the muck even if the entire cyclopian force was waiting for him above. He sprang nimbly and silently to the ladder and started up.

Before he neared the top, the trapdoor creaked open. Oliver froze in place and those down below went perfectly silent.

“Oh, no,” the halfling moaned as a naked pair of cyclopian buttocks shifted over the hole. Oliver buried his face in his arms, hoping his wide-brimmed hat would protect him. “Oh, please shoot him fast,” he whispered, not thrilled with the possibilities.

He breathed easier when Luthien’s bow twanged and he felt the rush of air as an arrow whipped past. He looked up to see the bolt bury itself deep in the unwitting cyclopian’s fleshy bottom. The brute howled and spun, and took a dwarfish crossbow quarrel right in the face as it foolishly leaned over the opening. The screaming went away and the friends heard the cyclopian fall dead on the floor of the small room above.

Oliver adjusted his hat and looked to the upturned faces below. “Hey,” he called out softly, “the one-eyes, they look the same from both ends!”

“Just go on!” Luthien scolded.

Oliver shrugged and scampered up the ladder, coming into a small, square room, where the smell was nearly as bad as down below. Some brute was knocking on the door.

“Bergus?” it called.

Oliver turned back, putting his face over the opening, lifting his finger over pursed lips and motioning for the others to clear out of the way. Then he padded silently to the door. It rattled as the brute outside jostled it, for only a small hook held it closed.

“Bergus?” the brute growled again, and Oliver could tell that it was fast growing impatient.

The door shook as the cyclopian hit it harder, perhaps with his shoulder. Oliver looked to the dead cyclopian and considered the angle.

“You all right?” came a call, and the door shook again. Oliver slipped to the side of it and drew out his rapier.

Three loud knocks.

“Bergus?”

“Help me,” Oliver grunted softly, trying to imitate the low tones of a cyclopian and to sound as though he was in trouble. As soon as he spoke the words, he brought his rapier flicking up, unhooking the latch. An instant later the cyclopian hit the door shoulder first, barreling through, and Oliver stung the inside of its knee with his rapier point, then kicked the brute’s back foot in behind its leading one.