Luthien's Gamble

11 Tainted

Belsen’Krieg, his ugly face a mask of outrage, pulled the cord from one of the sacks piled in the back of the wagon and reached inside with his huge hand. Those terrified cyclopians around him didn’t have to wait for their general to extract the hand to know what would be found.

“Tainted!” the ugly general bellowed. He yanked his hand from the sack and hurled the worthless supplies—part foodstuffs, but mostly fine beach sand—high into the air.

Montfort was only thirty miles from Port Charley, as the bird flies, but given the rough terrain and the season, with some trails blocked by piled snow and tumbled boulders and others deep with mud, the cyclopian general had planned on a five-day march. The army had done well; as far as Belsen’Krieg could determine, they had crossed the halfway point early that morning, the third day out. And now their route could be directly east, sliding away from the mountains to easier ground for more than half the remaining distance.

But they were nearly out of food. The soldiers had left Port Charley with few supplies, the plan being that the wagons would continually filter in behind them on the road. So it had gone for the first two days, but when the wagons had left the afternoon of that second day to go back to Port Charley and resupply, they had been attacked and burned.

Belsen’Krieg had promptly dispatched a brigade of a thousand of his finest troops to meet the next east-moving train. Despite a few minor skirmishes with the increasing numbers of rebels, that caravan had gotten through, to the cheers of the waiting army. Those cheers turned to silent frowns when the soldiers discovered they had been deceived, that the supplies which had gone out of the port city on the second day were not supplies at all.

The cyclopian leader stood and stared back to the west for a long, long time, fantasizing about the torture and mayhem he would wreak on the fools of Port Charley. Likely it was a small group of sympathizers for the rebels—the fact that the wagons got out of the town at all made Belsen’Krieg believe that the criminals in Port Charley were few. That wouldn’t hinder Belsen’Krieg’s revenge, though. He would flatten the town and sink all of their precious fishing boats. He would kill . . .

The cyclopian dismissed the fantasy. Those were thoughts for another day. Right now, Belsen’Krieg had too many pressing problems, too many decisions. He considered turning the force back to Port Charley, crushing the town and feasting well, maybe on the meat of dead humans. Then he looked back to the east, to the easier ground, the rolling fields of white and brown that lay before them. They were more than halfway to Montfort, and of the twelve or so miles remaining, at least ten of them would be away from the treacherous mountains. With a good hard march, the army could reach Montfort’s walls by twilight the next day. They might even happen upon a village or two, and there they could resupply.

There they could feast.

The cyclopian began to nod his huge head, and those around him stared hopefully, thinking that their magnificent leader had found a solution.

“We have two more hours of good light,” Belsen’Krieg announced. “Double-step!”

A couple of groans emanated from the gathering about the general, but Belsen’Krieg’s scowl silenced them effectively.

“Double-step,” he said again, calmly, evenly. Had this been an ordinary cyclopian tribe, one of the wild groups that lived in the mountains, Belsen’Krieg’s life would likely have been forfeit at that moment. But these were Praetorian Guards; most had spent their entire lives in training for service to Greensparrow. The grumbling stopped, except for the unintentional rumblings of empty stomachs, and the army resumed its march and gained another two miles before the sun dipped below the horizon and the chill night breeze came up.

Belsen’Krieg’s advance scouts came back to the army soon after it had pitched camp, reporting that they had discovered a village ahead, not far off the trail, only a few miles to the north of Montfort. The place was not deserted, the scouts assured Belsen’Krieg, for as dusk fell, lamps were lit in every house.

The brutish cyclopian leader smiled as he considered the news. He still did not know what to make of this rebellion, did not know how widespread it might be. Going into a small village might be risky, might incite more Eriadorans to join in the fight against Greensparrow. Belsen’Krieg considered his own soldiers, their morale dwindling with their supplies. They would go into the town, he decided, and take what they needed, and if a few humans were killed and a few buildings burned, then so be it.

That rumor spread through the cyclopian encampment quickly, eagerly, and the soldiers bedded down with hope.

As the darkness settled in deep about the camp though, the night, like the one before, became neither quiet nor restful, and hope shifted to uneasiness. Bands of rebels circled the camp, peppering the brutes with arrows, some fire-tipped, others whistling invisibly through the dark to thud into the ground or a tree, a tent pole or even a cyclopian, surprising and unnerving all those around. At one point, a volley of nearly a hundred burning bolts streaked through the night sky, and though not a single cyclopian was slain in that barrage, the effect on the whole of the army was truly unsettling.

Belsen’Krieg realized that the small rebel bands would do little real damage, and he knew that his soldiers needed to rest, but for the sake of morale, he had to respond. So bold an attack could not go unanswered. Companies were formed up and sent out into the darkness, but they saw nothing among the snowy and muddy fields and heard nothing except the taunts of the elusive Eriadorans, who knew this ground, their home ground.

One company, returning to the encampment, was attacked openly, if only briefly, as they neared the crest of a small hill. A group of men sprang up from concealment atop that hillock and charged down through the cyclopian ranks, swatting at the brutes with clubs and old swords, poking at them with pitchforks and slicing with scythes. They ran right through the cyclopians with no intention of stopping for a pitched fight, and rushed out, disappearing into the darkness. A few seconds of frenzy, another small thorn poked into the side of the huge army.

In truth, only a dozen Praetorian Guards were killed that long night, and only a score or so were wounded. But few of the brutes slept, and those who did, did not sleep well.

“The bait is set?” Luthien asked Siobhan soon before dawn of the next day, an overcast, rainy, and windswept day. He looked out from Caer MacDonald’s northern wall, across the lightening fields and hedgerows. He noted the lighter shade of gray, the last remnants of snow, clinging to the dark patches, losing the battle with spring.

“Felling Downs,” the half-elf replied. “We had fifty soldiers in there all the yesterday, and burned the lights long into the night.” Siobhan chuckled. “We expected to be attacked by the cyclopians’ advance scouts, but they stayed out.”

Luthien glanced at her sidelong. He had wondered where she had been the previous night, and now he thought himself foolish for not realizing that Siobhan would personally lead the group out to the small village north of Caer MacDonald as bait. Wherever the fighting might be, Siobhan would find her way to the front. Even Shuglin and the other dwarfs, so tortured under Greensparrow’s rule, were not as fanatical. Everything in Siobhan’s life revolved around the rebellion and killing cyclopians.

Everything.

“How many have gone?” Luthien asked.

“Three hundred,” came the quick reply.

Again Luthien looked at the half-elf. Three hundred? Only three hundred? The cyclopian force numbered fifty times that, but they were supposed to go out and deal the brutes a stinging blow with only three hundred warriors? His expression, eyebrows arching high over his eyes, clearly asked all of those questions.

“We cannot safely cover more in the ground to the north,” Siobhan explained, and from her tone it was obvious that she wished they could send out the whole of their force. She, perhaps even more than Luthien, wanted to hit hard at the cyclopian army. “We cannot risk many lives on the open field.”

Luthien nodded. He knew the truth of what Siobhan was saying; in fact, he had initially argued against going out from Caer MacDonald at all. But the ambush plan was a good one. For the cyclopians to take the easiest and most logical route into Caer MacDonald, they would have to cross a small river west of Felling Downs, then turn south, through the town and straight to the foothills and the walled city. There was only one real bridge across that river anywhere in the vicinity, northwest of Felling Downs, but Luthien and his cohorts could cross the water in the rougher ground just to the west of Caer MacDonald. They would then strike out to the north and take up a secretive position in the hedgerows and other cover just south of the bridge—a bridge which Shuglin’s folk had already rigged for collapse. When the bulk of the enemy army got across, heading out for Felling Downs, that bridge would be taken down and those cyclopians caught on the western side would face the wrath of Luthien’s marauders.

“Know this as an important day,” the young Bedwyr remarked. “The first true test of Avon’s army.”

“And of our own,” Siobhan added.

Luthien started to argue, was going to remark that the taking of Montfort had been their first test, but he stopped, admitting the truth of Siobhan’s words. This would be the first time the rebels battled with a large contingent of Praetorian Guards, a trained and prepared army.

“The group is away?” Luthien asked.

Siobhan nodded, and unconsciously looked to the west.

“And you will soon set out to join with them?” Luthien asked. The question was rhetorical, for of course Siobhan would rush to catch up with those who would soon see battle. “Then we must hurry,” the young Bedwyr quickly added.

The fact that he had suddenly included himself in the ambush was not lost on Siobhan. She stared long and hard at Luthien, and he could not determine if her look was approving or not.

“You are too valua—” came the beginning of her response.

“We are all too valuable,” the young Bedwyr said, determined that he would not be turned away this time. Lately, every time Luthien included himself in plans that would likely lead to fierce combat, someone, usually Siobhan, would pipe in that he was too valuable to risk himself so.

Siobhan knew better than to argue. She could convince Luthien of many things, could guide him through many decisions, but she had learned during the taking of Montfort that no amount of coercion would keep the brave young man out of harm’s way.

“This is the test of Avon’s army,” Luthien explained. “And I must see how they respond.”

Siobhan thought of several arguments against that course, primarily that the defense of Caer MacDonald, and the morale of the rebels, would be weakened indeed if Luthien Bedwyr, the Crimson Shadow, was killed before the cyclopians even reached the city walls. She kept her doubts private, though, and decided to trust in Luthien. He had been in on every major skirmish within the city, and whether it was skill or just dumb luck, he had come through it all practically unscathed.

They set out together almost immediately, running west and then north, along with a few elven archers. Less than an hour after the dawn, the three hundred warriors, hand-picked for this important battle, lay in wait within a mile south of the bridge over the small river known as Felling Run. Across the water to the east, the marauders could see the plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of Felling Downs, more bait for the cyclopians.

And soon after, to the north, they caught their first glimpse of Avon’s army, a huge black and silver mass, tearing up the turf, shaking the ground as they stomped determinedly on. Luthien held his breath for many moments after he realized the extent of that force. He thought of Oliver and the halfling’s plan to abandon the rebellion and flee to the northland, and he wondered, for the first time, if Oliver might not have been right.