Luthien's Gamble

by R. A. Salvatore

  The Dwelf, so named because it catered to nonhumans, particularly to dwarfs and elves, was bustling that day. It was simply too cold outside to wage any major battles, and many of the rebels were using the time to resupply their own larders and relax. Located in one of Montfort’s poorest sections, the Dwelf had never been very popular with any except the nonhuman residents of Montfort, but now, as the favored tavern of the Crimson Shadow, the hero of the revolution, it was almost always full.

  The barkeep, a slender but rugged man (and looking more fearsome than usual, for he hadn’t found the time to shave his thick black stubble in nearly a week), wiped his hands on a beer-stained cloth and moved up to stand before Oliver and Luthien as soon as they took their customary seats at the bar.

  “We’re looking for Siobahn,” Luthien said immediately.

  Before Tasman could answer, the young Bedwyr felt a gentle touch on his earlobe. He closed his eyes as the hand slid lower, stroking his neck in the sensuous way only Siobahn could.

  “We have business,” Oliver said to Tasman, then looked sidelong at the couple. “Though I am not so sure which business my excited friend favors at this time.”

  Luthien’s cinnamon eyes popped open and he spun about, taking Siobahn’s hand as he turned and pulling it from his neck. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, to find that the half-elf was not only not alone, but that one of her companions was a scowling Katerin O’Hale.

  The young man realized then that the gentle stroke of his neck had been given for Katerin’s benefit.

  Oliver knew it, too. “I think that the war comes closer to my home,” he whispered to Tasman. The barkeep snickered and slid a couple of ale-filled mugs before the companions, then moved away. Tasman’s ears were good enough to catch everything important that was said along his bar, but he always tried to make sure that those conversing didn’t know he was in on the discussion.

  Luthien locked stares with Katerin for a long moment, then cleared his throat again. “What news from Avon?” he asked Siobahn.

  Siobahn looked over her left shoulder to her other companion, an elf dressed in many layers of thick cloth and furs. He had rosy cheeks and long eyelashes that glistened with crystals of melting ice.

  “It is not promising, good sir,” the elf said to Luthien, with obvious reverence.

  Luthien winced a bit, still uncomfortable with such formal treatment. He was the leader of the rebels, put forth as the hero of Eriador, and those who were not close to him always called him “good sir” or “my lord,” out of respect.

  “Reports continue that an army is on the way from Avon,” the elf went on. “There are rumors of a great gathering of cyclopian warriors—Praetorian Guard, I would assume—in Princetown.”

  It made sense to Luthien. Princetown lay diagonally across the Iron Cross to the southeast. It was not physically the closest to Montfort of Avon’s major cities, but it was the closest to Malpuissant’s Wall, the only pass through the great mountains that an army could hope to navigate, even in midsummer, let alone in the harsh winter.

  Still, any march from Princetown to Montfort, crossing through the fortress of Dun Caryth, which anchored Malpuissant’s Wall to the Iron Cross, would take many weeks, and the rate of attrition in the harsh weather would be taxing. Luthien took some comfort in the news, for it didn’t seem probable that Greensparrow would strike out from Princetown until the spring melt was in full spate.

  “There is another possibility,” the elf said grimly, seeing the flicker of hope in the young Bedwyr’s eyes.

  “Port Charley,” guessed Katerin, referring to the seaport west of Montfort.

  The elf nodded.

  “Is the rumor based in knowledge or in fear?” Oliver asked.

  “I do not know that there is a rumor at all,” the elf replied.

  “Fear,” Oliver decided, and well-founded, he silently added. As the realities of the fighting in Montfort had settled in and the rebels turned their eyes outside the embattled city, talk of an Avon fleet sailing into Port Charley abounded. It seemed a logical choice for Greensparrow. The straits between Baranduine and Avon were treacherous in the winter, and icebergs were not uncommon, but it was not so far a sail, and the great ships of Avon could carry many, many cyclopians.

  “What allies—” Luthien began to ask, but the elf cut him short, fully expecting the question.

  “The folk of Port Charley are no friend of cyclopians,” he said. “No doubt they are glad that one-eyes are dying in Montfort, and that Duke Morkney was slain.”

  “But . . .” Oliver prompted, correctly interpreting the elf’s tone.

  “But they have declared no allegiance to our cause,” the elf finished.

  “Nor will they,” Katerin put in. All eyes turned to her, some questioning, wondering what she knew. Luthien understood, for he had often been to Hale, Katerin’s home, an independent, free-spirited town not so different from Port Charley. Still, he wasn’t so sure that Katerin’s reasoning was sound. The names of ancient heroes, of Bruce MacDonald, sparked pride and loyalty in all Eriadorans, the folk of Port Charley included.

  “If a fleet does sail, it must be stopped at the coast,” Luthien said determinedly.

  Katerin shook her head. “If you try to bring an army into Port Charley, you will be fighting,” she said. “But not with allies of Greensparrow.”

  “Would they let the cyclopians through?” Oliver asked.

  “If they will not join with us, then they will not likely oppose Greensparrow,” Siobahn put in.

  Luthien’s mind raced with possibilities. Could he bring Port Charley into the revolution? And if not, could he and his rebels hope to hold out against an army of Avon?

  “Perhaps we should consider again our course,” Oliver offered a moment later.

  “Consider our course?” Katerin and Siobahn said together.

  “Go back underground,” the halfling replied. “The winter is too cold for much fighting anyway. So we stop fighting. And you and I,” he said to Luthien, nudging his friend, “will fly away like wise little birds.”

  The open proclamation that perhaps this riot had gotten a bit out of hand sobered the mood of all those near to the halfling, even the many eavesdroppers who were not directly in on the conversation. Oliver had reminded them all of the price of failure.

  Siobahn looked at her elvish companion, who only shrugged helplessly.

  “Our lives were not so bad before the fight,” Tasman remarked, walking by Luthien and Oliver on the other side of the bar.

  “There is a possibility of diplomacy,” Siobahn said. “Even now. Aubrey knows that he cannot put down the revolt without help from Avon, and he dearly craves the position of duke. He might believe that if he could strike a deal and rescue Montfort, Greensparrow would reward him with the title.”

  Luthien looked past the speaker, into the eyes of Katerin O’Hale, green orbs that gleamed with angry fires. The notion of diplomacy, of surrender, apparently did not sit well with the proud warrior woman.

  Behind Katerin, several patrons were jostled and then pushed aside. Then Katerin, too, was nudged forward as a squat figure, four feet tall but sturdy, sporting a bushy blue-black beard, shoved his way to stand before Luthien.

  “What’s this foolish talk?” the dwarf Shuglin demanded, his gnarly fists clenched as though he meant to leap up and throttle Luthien at any moment.

  “We are discussing our course,” Oliver put in. The halfling saw the fires in Shuglin’s eyes. Angry fires—for the dwarf, now that he had found some hope and had tasted freedom, often proclaimed that he would prefer death over a return to subjugation.

  Shuglin snorted. “You decided your course that day in the Ministry,” he roared. “You think you can go back now?”

  “Not I, nor Luthien,” the halfling admitted. “But for the rest . . .”

  Shuglin wasn’t listening. He shoved between Luthien and Oliver, grabbed the edge of the bar, and heaved himself up to stand above the crowd.

  �
��Hey!” he roared and the Dwelf went silent. Even Tasman, though certainly not appreciating the heavy boots on his polished bar, held back.

  “Who in here is for surrendering?” Shuglin called.

  The Dwelf’s crowd remained silent.

  “Shuglin,” Luthien began, trying to calm his volatile friend.

  The dwarf ignored him. “Who in here is for killing Aubrey and raising the flag of Caer MacDonald?”

  The Dwelf exploded in cheers. Swords slid free of their sheaths and were slapped together above the heads of the crowd. Calls for Aubrey’s head rang out from every corner.

  Shuglin hopped down between Oliver and Luthien. “You got your answer,” he growled, and he moved to stand between Katerin and Siobahn, his gaze steeled upon Luthien and muscular arms crossed over his barrel chest.

  Luthien didn’t miss the smile that Katerin flashed at the dwarf, nor the pat she gave to him.

  Of everything the dwarf had said, the most important was the ancient name of Montfort, Caer MacDonald, a tribute to Eriador’s hero of old.

  “Well said, my friend,” Oliver began. “But—”

  That was as far as the halfling got.

  “Bruce MacDonald is more than a name,” Luthien declared.

  “So is the Crimson Shadow,” Siobahn unexpectedly added.

  Luthien paused for just an instant, to turn a curious and appreciative look at the half-elf. “Bruce MacDonald is an ideal,” Luthien went on. “A symbol for the folk of Eriador. And do you know what Bruce MacDonald stands for?”

  “Killing cyclopians?” asked Oliver, who was from Gascony and not Eriador.

  “Freedom,” Katerin corrected. “Freedom for every man and woman.” She looked to Siobahn and to Shuglin. “For every elf and every dwarf. And every halfling, Oliver,” she said, her intent gaze locking with his. “Freedom for Eriador, and for every person who would live here.”

  “We talk of halting what we cannot halt,” Luthien put in. “How many merchants and their cyclopian guards have been killed? How many Praetorian Guards? And what of Duke Morkney? Do you believe that Greensparrow will so easily forgive?”

  Luthien slipped off his stool, standing tall. “We have begun something here, something too important to be stopped by mere fear. We have begun the freeing of Eriador.”

  “Let us not get carried away,” Oliver interjected. “Or we might get carried away . . . in boxes.”

  Luthien looked at his diminutive friend and realized how far Oliver—and many others, as well, given the whispers that had reached Luthien’s ears—were sliding backward on this issue. “You are the one who told me to reveal myself in the Ministry that day,” he reminded the halfling. “You are the one who wanted me to start the riot.”

  “I?” Oliver balked. “I just wanted to get us out of there alive after you so foolishly jumped up and shot an arrow at the Duke!”

  “I was there to save Siobahn!” Luthien declared.

  “And I was there to save you!” Oliver roared right back at him. The halfling sighed and calmed, patted his hand on Luthien’s shoulder. “But let us not get carried away,” Oliver said. “In boxes or any other way.”

  Luthien didn’t calm a bit. His thoughts were on destiny, on Bruce MacDonald and the ideals the man represented. Katerin was with him, so was Shuglin, and so was his father, back on Isle Bedwydrin. He looked toward Siobahn, but could not read the feelings behind the sparkle of her green eyes. He would have liked something from her, some indication, for over the past few weeks she had quietly become one of his closest advisors.

  “It cannot be stopped,” Luthien declared loudly enough so that every person in the Dwelf heard him. “We have started a war that we must win.”

  “The boats will sail from Avon,” Oliver warned.

  “And so they will be stopped,” Luthien countered, cinnamon eyes flashing. “In Port Charley.” He looked back out at the crowd, back to Siobahn, and it seemed to him as if the sparkle in her eyes had intensified, as if he had just passed some secret test. “Because the folk of that town will join with us,” Luthien went on, gathering strength, “and so will all of Eriador.” Luthien paused, but his wicked smile spoke volumes.

  “They will join us once the flag of Caer MacDonald flies over Montfort,” he continued. “Once they know that we are in this to the end.”

  Oliver thought of remarking on just how bitter that end might become, but he held the thought. He had never been afraid of death, had lived his life as an ultimate adventure, and now Luthien, this young and naive boy he had found on the road, had opened his eyes once more.

  Shuglin thrust his fist into the air. “Get me to the mines!” he growled. “I’ll give you an army!”

  Luthien considered his bearded friend. Shuglin had long been lobbying for an attack on the Montfort mines, outside of town, where most of his kin were imprisoned. Siobahn had whispered that course into Luthien’s ear many times, as well. Now, with the decision that this was more than a riot, with the open declaration of war against Greensparrow, Luthien recognized that action must be taken swiftly.

  He eyed the dwarf directly. “To the mines,” he agreed, and Shuglin whooped and hopped away, punching his fist into the air.

  Many left the Dwelf then, to spread the word. It occurred to Oliver that some might be spies for Aubrey and were even now running to tell the viscount of the plan.

  It didn’t matter, the halfling decided. Since the beginning of the revolt in the city’s lower section, Aubrey and his forces had been bottled up within the walls of the inner section and could not get word to those cyclopians guarding the Montfort mines.

  “You are crazy,” Siobahn said to Luthien, but in a teasing, not derisive, manner. She moved near to the man and put her lips against his ear. “And so exciting,” she whispered, but loud enough so that those closest could hear. She bit his earlobe and gave a soft growl.

  Looking over her shoulder, glimpsing Katerin’s scowl, Luthien recognized again that Siobahn’s nuzzle, like her earlier display of affection, was for the other woman’s sake. Luthien felt no power, no pride, with that understanding. The last thing the young Bedwyr wanted to do was bring pain to Katerin O’Hale, who had been his lover—and more than that, his best friend—those years on Isle Bedwydrin.

  Siobahn and her elvish companion left then, but not before the half-elf threw a wink back at Luthien that changed to a superior look as she passed Katerin.

  Katerin didn’t blink, showed no expression whatsoever.

  That alone made Luthien nervous.

  Not so long afterward, Luthien, Oliver, and Katerin stood alone just inside the door of the Dwelf. It was snowing again, heavily, so many of the patrons had departed to stoke the fires in their own homes.

  The talk between the three was light, but obviously strained, with Oliver pointedly keeping the subject on planning the coming assault on the Montfort mines.

  The tension between Luthien and Katerin did not diminish, though, and finally Luthien decided that he had to say something.

  “It is not what it seems,” he stammered, interrupting the rambling Oliver in midsentence.

  Katerin looked at him curiously.

  “With Siobahn, I mean,” the young man explained. “We have been friends for some time. I mean . . .”

  Luthien found no words to continue. He realized how stupid he must sound; of course Katerin—and everyone else!—knew that he and Siobahn were lovers.

  “You were not here,” he stuttered. “I mean . . .”

  Oliver groaned, and Luthien realized that he was failing miserably and was probably making the situation much worse. Still, he could not bring himself to stop, could not accept things as they were between him and Katerin.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said again, and Oliver, recognizing the scowl crossing Katerin’s face, groaned again.

  “Siobahn and I . . . we have this friendship,” Luthien said. He knew that he was being ultimately condescending, especially considering the importance of the previous di
scussion. But Luthien’s emotion overruled his wisdom and he couldn’t stop himself. “No, it is more than that. We have this . . .”

  “Do you believe that you are more important to me than the freedom of Eriador?” Katerin asked him bluntly.

  “I know you are hurt,” Luthien replied before he realized the stupidity of his words.

  Katerin took a quick step forward, grabbed Luthien by the shoulders and lifted her knee into his groin, bending him low. She moved as if to say something, but only trembled and turned away.

  Oliver noted the glisten of tears rimming her green eyes and knew how profoundly the young man’s words had stung her.

  “Never make that mistake about me again,” Katerin said evenly, through gritted teeth, and she left without turning back.

  Luthien gradually straightened, face white with pain, his gaze locked on the departing woman. When she disappeared into the night, he looked helplessly at Oliver.

  The halfling shook his head, trying not to laugh.

  “I think I’m falling in love with her,” Luthien said breathlessly, grimacing with the effort of talking.

  “With her?” Oliver asked, pointing to the doorway.

  “With her,” Luthien confirmed.

  Oliver stroked his goatee. “Let me understand,” he began slowly, thoughtfully. “One woman puts her knee into your cabarachees and the other puts her tongue into your ear, and you prefer the one with the knee?”

  Luthien shrugged, honestly not knowing the answer.

  Oliver shook his head. “I’m very worried about you.”

  Luthien was worried, too. He didn’t know what he was feeling, for either Katerin or for Siobahn. He cared for them both—no man could ask for a dearer friend or lover than either woman—and that made it all the more confusing. He was a young man trying to explore emotions he did not understand. And at the same time, he was the Crimson Shadow, leader of a revolution . . . and a thousand lives, ten thousand lives, might hinge on his every decision.

  Oliver started for the door and motioned for Luthien to follow. The young man took a deep and steadying breath and readily complied.

  It was good to let someone else lead.