Luthien's Gamble

by R. A. Salvatore

  He dreamed of his adversary, the huge and ugly cyclopian. All the tactics of the day filtered through his thoughts, all the moves the brute had executed: the first powerful probe at the city; the second assault, the feint, where many cyclopian arsonists slipped in; and the tactic when the new army appeared on the field, the sudden and organized turn of the skilled Praetorian Guard. They would have been destroyed on the field then and there, would have been squeezed and in disarray, caught defenseless. But their leader had reacted quickly and decisively, had swung about and chased the folk from Port Charley all the way back across Felling Run.

  Luthien’s eyes popped open wide, though he had been asleep for only a little more than an hour. Beside him, Siobahn opened a sleepy eye, then buried her cheek against his muscular chest.

  “He is not coming back,” Luthien said, his voice sounding loud above the background murmur of the wind.

  Siobahn lifted her head, her long hair cascading across Luthien’s shoulder.

  “The cyclopians,” Luthien explained, and he slipped out from Siobahn’s grasp and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at the red glow of the hearth. “They are not coming back!”

  “What are you saying?” Siobahn asked, shaking her head and brushing her hair back from her face. She sat up, the blankets falling away.

  “Their leader is too smart,” Luthien went on, speaking as much to himself as to his companion. “He knows that the arrival of the new force will cost him dearly if he goes against our walls again.”

  “He has come to take back the city,” Siobahn reminded.

  Luthien pointed a finger up in the air, signaling a revelation. “But with everything that has happened, and with the storm, he knows that he may lose.”

  Siobahn’s expression revealed her doubts more clearly than any question ever could. Cyclopians were a stubborn, single-minded race for the most part, and both she and Luthien had heard many tales of one-eye tribes charging in against overwhelming odds and fighting to the last living cyclopian.

  Luthien shook his head against her obvious reasoning. “These are Praetorian Guards,” he said. “And their leader is a cunning one. He will not come against the city tomorrow.”

  “Today,” Siobahn corrected, for it was after midnight. “And how do you know?”

  Luthien had an answer waiting for her. “Because I would not attack the city tomor—today,” he replied.

  Siobahn looked at him long and hard, but did not openly question his rationale. “What do you expect of him?” she asked.

  Until that very moment, Luthien had no idea of what his adversary might be up to. It came to him suddenly, crystal clear. “He’s going across the river,” the young Bedwyr asserted, and by the end of this sentence, he was finding breath hard to come by.

  Siobahn shook her head, doubting.

  “He will go over the river and catch the folk of Port Charley out in the open,” Luthien pressed, growing more anxious.

  “His goal is the city,” Siobahn insisted.

  “No!” Luthien replied sharply, more forcefully than he had intended. “He will catch them in the open field, and when they are destroyed, he can come back at us.”

  “If he has enough of a force left to come back at us,” Siobahn argued. “And by that time, we will have many more defenses in place.” She shook her head again, doubting the reasoning, but could see by Luthien’s stern visage that he was not convinced.

  “Time works against our enemy,” Siobahn reasoned. “By all accounts, they are practically without food, and they are far from home, weary and wounded.”

  Luthien wanted to remind her again that these were not ordinary cyclopians, were Praetorian Guard, but she kept going with her reasoning.

  “And if you are right,” she said, “then what are we to do? Oliver and the others are not fools. They will see the brutes coming, and then the way will be clear for them to get into Caer MacDonald.”

  “Our enemy will not leave an open path,” Luthien said grimly.

  “You have to trust in our allies,” Siobahn said. “Our responsibilities are in defending Caer MacDonald.” She paused and took note of Luthien’s hard breathing. Clearly, the man was upset, confused, and worried.

  “There is nothing for us to do,” Siobahn said, and she bent low and kissed Luthien, then sat back up, making no move to cover her nakedness. “Trust in them,” she said. Her hand moved along Luthien’s cheek and down his neck, and his muscles relaxed under her gentle touch.

  “But there is something,” he said suddenly, sitting up and looking directly into Siobahn’s eyes. “We can go out before dawn, along those trails in the north. If we circle . . .”

  Luthien stopped, seeing the look of sheer incredulity on the half-elf’s face.

  “Go out from the city?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “Our enemy will catch them in the open,” Luthien pleaded. “And then, if he decides that he hasn’t enough of a force remaining to capture the city, he’ll turn about and march for Port Charley, now wide open to him. The cyclopians will slaughter that town and dig in, and with the season moving toward spring, Greensparrow will have an open port in Eriador and will send a second, larger force across the mountains.”

  “How many are you thinking to send out?” the half-elf asked, concerned by Luthien’s reasoning.

  “Most,” Luthien replied without hesitation.

  Siobahn’s expression turned grim. “If you send most out, and our enemy comes back against Caer MacDonald, he will be entrenched within the city before we can strike back at him. We will be defeated and without shelter, scattering across Eriador’s fields.”

  Luthien expected that criticism, of course, and there was indeed much truth in what Siobahn was arguing. But he didn’t think that his adversary would come back at the city right away. Luthien’s gut told him that the cyclopians would cross the river.

  “Is this because of her?” Siobahn asked suddenly, unexpectedly.

  Luthien’s jaw dropped open. The reference to Katerin in such a way pained him, even more because for just a moment, he wondered if it might be true.

  Siobahn saw his wounded reaction. “I am sorry,” she said sincerely. “That was a terrible thing to say.” She leaned close and kissed Luthien again.

  “I know that your heart is for Caer MacDonald,” Siobahn whispered. “I know that your decisions are based on what is best for all. I never doubt that.” She kissed him again, and again, deeply, and he put his arms about her and hugged her close, feeling her warmth, needing her warmth.

  But then, in this night of revelations, Luthien pushed Siobahn out to arm’s length, and his puzzled expression caught her off guard.

  “This is not about me, is it?” he asked, accusingly.

  Siobahn didn’t seem to understand.

  “All of this,” Luthien said candidly. “The love we make. It is not me, Luthien Bedwyr, that you love. It is the Crimson Shadow, the leader of the rebellion.”

  “They are one and the same,” Siobahn replied.

  “No,” Luthien said, shaking his head slowly. “No. Because the rebellion will end, one way or the other, and so might I. But then again, I might not die, and what will Siobahn think of Luthien Bedwyr then, when the Crimson Shadow is needed no more?”

  Even in the quiet light, Luthien could see that Siobahn’s shoulders, indeed her whole body, slumped. He knew that he had wounded her, but he realized, too, that he had made her think.

  “Never doubt that I love you, Luthien Bedwyr,” the half-elf whispered.

  “But . . .” Luthien prompted.

  Siobahn turned away, looked at the glowing embers in the hearth. “I never knew my father,” she said, and the abrupt subject change caught Luthien by surprise. “He was an elf, my mother human.”

  “He died?”

  Siobahn shook her head. “He left, before I was born.”

  Luthien heard the pain in her voice, and his heart was near to breaking. “There were problems,” he reasoned. “The Fairborn—”
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br />   “Were free then,” Siobahn interjected. “For that was before Greensparrow, nearly three decades before Greensparrow.”

  Luthien quieted, but then realized that Siobahn’s tale made her nearly sixty years old! Much came into perspective for the young man then, things he hadn’t even considered during the wild rush of the last few weeks.

  “I am half-elven,” Siobahn stated. “I will live through three centuries, perhaps four, unless the blade of an enemy cuts me down.” She turned to face Luthien directly, and he could see her fair and angular features and intense green eyes clearly, despite the dim light. “My father left because he could not bear to watch his love and his child grow old and die,” she explained. “That is why there are so few of my mixed heritage. The Fairborn can love humans, but they know that to do so will leave them forlorn through the centuries.”

  “I am a temporary companion,” Luthien remarked, and there was no bitterness in his voice.

  “Who knows what will happen with war thick about us?” Siobahn put in. “I love you, Luthien Bedwyr.”

  “But the rebellion is paramount,” Luthien stated.

  It was a truth that Siobahn could not deny. She did indeed love Luthien, love the Crimson Shadow, but not with the intensity that a human might love another human. Elves and half-elves, longer living by far, could not afford to do that. And Luthien deserved more, Siobahn understood then.

  She slipped out of the bed and began pulling on her clothes.

  A part of Luthien wanted to cry out for her to stay. He had desired her since the moment he had first seen her as a simple slave girl.

  But Luthien stayed quiet, understanding what she was saying and silently agreeing. He loved Siobahn, and she loved him, but their union was never truly meant to be.

  And there was another woman that Luthien loved, as well. He knew it, and so did Siobahn.

  “The cyclopians will not come into the city tomorrow,” Luthien repeated as Siobahn pulled her heavy cloak over her shoulders.

  “Your reasoning calls for a tremendous gamble,” the half-elf replied.

  Luthien nodded. “Trust in me,” was all that he said as she walked out the door.

  LUTHIEN’S GAMBLE

  Luthien barely slept the rest of that night, just lay in his bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking of Siobahn and Katerin, and the enemy. Mostly the enemy: his enemy, the hulking, ugly cyclopian, more cunning than any one-eye Luthien had ever known.

  Siobahn returned to the apartment an hour before dawn to find Luthien fully awake, dressed, and sitting in a chair before the hearth, staring into the rekindled flames.

  “He’s not going to come,” Luthien said to her, his voice even, certain. “He’s going to take his army across the river and catch Oliver’s force unawares.”

  After a few moments of silence, with Siobahn making no move to reply, Luthien glanced over his shoulder to regard the half-elf. She stood by the door, holding his cloak.

  Luthien pulled on his boots and went to her, taking the garment and following her out of the apartment.

  The city was already awake, full of activity, and most of the bustle was nearby. Siobahn had gathered practically all of the army, ready to follow Luthien out of Caer MacDonald. The snow had turned into sleet and then to rain, but the wind had not abated. A thoroughly miserable morning, and yet, here they were, the thousands of Caer MacDonald’s makeshift militia, ready to march hard and fast to the west, ready to brave the elements and the cyclopians. Luthien knew who had prompted them.

  He looked at the half-elf then, standing calmly by his side, and his eyes were moist with tears of gratitude. He understood the depth of his gamble—if he was wrong and his adversary struck again against Caer MacDonald, the city would be overrun. Siobahn knew that, too, and so did every man and woman, every elf and dwarf, who had come out here this morning. They would take the gamble; they would trust in Luthien.

  The young Bedwyr felt a huge weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, but he allowed himself only a moment of doubt. He had played this out in his mind over and over throughout the night and was confident that he understood his adversary, that he was correctly anticipating the enemy’s move.

  Siobahn and Shuglin pulled him to the side.

  “I am not going with you,” the dwarf informed him.

  Luthien looked at Shuglin curiously, not knowing what to make of the unexpected declaration.

  “The dwarfs will comprise most of the defenders left in Caer MacDonald,” Siobahn explained. “They are best with the ballistae and catapults, and they have rigged traps that only they know how to spring.”

  “And we are not much good in the deep snow,” Shuglin added with a chuckle. “Beards get all icy, you know.”

  Luthien realized then that Shuglin’s hesitance to go out had nothing to do with any doubts the dwarf might harbor. Caer MacDonald had to remain at least moderately defended, for even if Luthien’s assessment proved correct, the cyclopians might send a token force at the city to keep the defenders within the walls distracted.

  “You have all the horses,” Shuglin began, turning to the business at hand and unrolling a map of the region. “There are a few among you who know well the trails you’ll need—we have even dispatched scouts to report back as you go along, in case the weather forces you to take an alternate route.” As he spoke, the dwarf moved his stubby finger along the map, through the foothills beyond Caer MacDonald’s southern gate, out to the west, around the Port Charley encampment, and then circling back to the north, back to the fields where they would meet the cyclopians.

  They set out without delay, a long stream of six thousand desperate, determined warriors. All of the elves were among the ranks, and all of the cavalry group, though fewer than two hundred fit horses could be found in the entire city. Like ghosts in the predawn dark, they went without lights, without any bustle. Quietly.

  Many carried longbows, each archer weighed down by several quivers of arrows. One group carried packs of bandages and salves, and the two dozen dwarfs that did go along were broken into groups of four, each group supporting a huge log across their shoulders. The going was slow on the slick trails—Luthien and the other horsemen had to walk their mounts all the way through the foothills—but the rain had cut hard into the snow. Every now and then they encountered a deep drift, and they bored right through it, using swords and axes as ice picks and shovels.

  As the sky lightened with the approach of dawn, the Port Charley encampment came into sight in the fields to the north, just across Felling Run. Luthien found a high perch and stared long and hard in that direction, looking for some sign of the cyclopians.

  Beyond the Port Charley encampment, the field was empty.

  Doubts fluttered about the young Bedwyr. What if he was wrong? What if the cyclopians went to Caer MacDonald instead?

  Luthien fought them away, concentrated on the chosen course. The ground leveled out just a few hundred yards to the north; a rider could get into the Port Charley encampment within twenty minutes. Luthien dispatched three, with information for Oliver. He told them to pick their way through the remaining rough terrain, then split up as they crossed the field in case cyclopian assassins were about.

  Luthien saw those same three riders milling about the still-moving column a short while later. He went to them, confused as to why they were still there, and found that Siobahn had overruled him.

  “My scouts near the base of the foothills have spotted cyclopian spies in the field,” the half-elf explained.

  Luthien looked again to the north, to the encampment. “Our friends should be informed of our position,” he reasoned.

  “We have little enough cover where we are,” Siobahn replied. “If we are found out . . .” She let that notion hang heavily in the air, and Luthien didn’t have to press the point. If his adversary found out about the move before the army of Avon marched, then their target would surely become Caer MacDonald.

  Again doubts filled Luthien’s mind. If cyclo
pian scouts were in the field between his column and the Port Charley encampment, might they already have learned of the march?

  Siobahn saw a cloud cross the young man’s face, and she put a comforting hand on Luthien’s forearm.

  The entire force took up a position northeast of the Port Charley camp, filtering down to the edge of the fields, out of sight, but ready to charge across and meet the foes. It was good ground, Luthien decided, for their rush, when it came, would be generally downhill into cyclopians marching across slippery, uneven ground.

  When it came, Luthien wondered, or if it came? He continued to peer across the whitened fields, empty save the blowing rain.

  A long hour passed. The day brightened and the rain turned into a cold drizzle. The folk of the Port Charley encampment were stirring, breaking down their tents, readying their gear.

  Another hour, and still no sign.

  Siobahn waited with Luthien. “Our allies do not cross the river,” she kept saying, the implication being that Caer MacDonald was not under attack, that the cyclopians hadn’t moved.

  This did little to calm Luthien. He had thought that his adversary would attack at first light, hard and fast. He wondered if the cyclopians might be going the other way, around to the east, to come in against the city. If the cyclopians could manage the rough terrain, that would be a fine plan, for then the Avon army would not be caught in between the defenders and the Port Charley group—indeed, the reinforcements from Port Charley would have to swing all the way around the city, or cross through the city itself, just to get into the battle.

  Near panic, Luthien looked around at his camp, at the cavalry rubbing down the dripping horses, at the dwarfs, oil-soaking their great logs, at the archers testing the pull of their bows. The young Bedwyr suddenly felt himself a fool, suddenly believed that he had set them all up for disaster. He wanted to break down the camp then, march back swiftly to Caer MacDonald, and he almost called out commands to do just that.