Luthien's Gamble

15 Chess Game

The fighting within the city did not end at twilight. The wall and courtyard were cleared soon enough, but many cyclopians had slipped into the shadows of Caer MacDonald; several fights broke out in alleyways, and several buildings went up in flames.

Soon after sunset, too, the storm that Siobhan had predicted broke in full. It began as heavy sleet, drumming on the roofs of the houses within the city, drenching the fires of the encampments from Avon and Port Charley. As the night deepened and the temperature dipped, the sleet became a thick, wet snow.

Luthien watched it from the gatehouse, and later from the roof of the Dwelf. It seemed to him as if God, too, was sickened by the sight of the carnage, and so He was whitewashing the grisly scene. It would take more than snow, however deep it lay, to erase that image from Luthien Bedwyr’s mind.

“Luthien?” came a call from the street below—Shuglin’s throaty voice. Luthien cautiously picked his way across the slippery roof and peered down at the dwarf.

“Emissary from Oliver’s camp,” Shuglin explained, pointing to the tavern door.

Luthien nodded and headed for the rain gutter that would allow him to climb down to the street. He had expected that their allies would send an emissary; he had wondered if perhaps the whole force might come into the city.

Apparently that was not the case, for the night grew long and the fires of the encampment still burned far in the west, beyond Felling Run. The emissary would explain the intentions of the force to him so that he could coordinate the movements of Caer MacDonald’s defenses. Luthien found that his heart was racing as he slipped down the rain gutter, lighting gently on the street, which was already two inches deep with snow.

Perhaps it was Katerin who had come in, Luthien hoped. He hadn’t realized until this very moment how badly he wanted to see the fiery, red-haired woman of Hale.

When he rushed into the Dwelf, he found that the emissary wasn’t Katerin, or Oliver, or even Brind’Amour. It was a young woman, practically a girl, by the name of Jeanna D’elfinbrock, one of Port Charley’s fisherfolk. Her light eyes sparkled when she looked upon Luthien, this legend known as the Crimson Shadow, and Luthien found himself embarrassed.

The meeting was quick and to the point—it had to be, for Jeanna had to get back to the encampment long before dawn, dodging cyclopian patrols all the way. Oliver deBurrows had wanted to bring Port Charley’s force in, the young woman reported, but they could not safely cross Felling Run. The cyclopians were not so far to the north, and they were alert and would not allow such a move.

Luthien wasn’t surprised. Many of Caer MacDonald’s defenders were dead or wounded too badly to man the walls. If the two thousand or so reinforcements were allowed inside the city, the holes in the city’s defenses would be plugged, and the cyclopians would have to resume their assault practically from the same place they had begun it the previous day.

“Our deepest thanks to you and all your force,” Luthien said to Jeanna, and now it was her turn to blush. “Tell your leaders that their actions here will not be in vain, that Caer MacDonald will not fall. Tell Oliver, from me personally, that I know he will show up where most we need him. And tell Katerin O’Hale to take care of my horse!” Luthien couldn’t help a sidelong glance at Siobhan as he spoke of Katerin, but the half-elf did not seem bothered in the least.

With that, Jeanna D’elfinbrock left the Dwelf and the city, picking her careful way across the snowy fields back through the raging storm the few miles to the Port Charley encampment.

Later that night, Luthien and Siobhan lay in bed, discussing the day past and the day yet to come. The wind had kicked up, shaking the small apartment in Tiny Alcove, humming down the chimney against the rising heat so that the air in the small room had a smoky taste.

Siobhan snuggled close to Luthien, propped herself up on one elbow, and considered the concentration on the young man’s fair face. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the dark. But he was looking somewhere else, the perceptive half-elf knew.

“They are fine,” Siobhan whispered. “They have campfires blazing and know how to shelter themselves from the weather. Besides, they have a wizard among them, and from what you’ve told me of Brind’Amour, he’ll have a trick or two to defeat the storm.”

Luthien didn’t doubt that, and it was a comforting thought. “We could have swung them to the south and brought them into the city along the foothills,” the young man reasoned.

“We did not even know the extent and location of their camp until well after sunset,” Siobhan replied.

“It would only have taken a couple of hours,” Luthien was quick to answer. “Even in the storm. Most of the lower trails are sheltered, and there was little snow on them to begin with.” He breathed a deep, resigned sigh. “We could have gotten them in.”

Siobhan didn’t doubt what he was saying, but the last thing she wanted now for Luthien was added guilt. “Oliver knows the area as well as you,” she reminded Luthien. “If the folk of Port Charley wanted to get into Caer MacDonald, they would have.”

Luthien wasn’t so certain of that, but the argument was moot now, for it was well past midnight and he couldn’t do anything about the camp’s location.

“Shuglin informs me that he and his kin have some new traps ready for the cyclopians,” the half-elf said, trying to shift the subject to a more positive note. “When our enemies come on again, they’ll find the wall harder to breach, and if they’re caught out in the open for any length of time, Oliver and his force will squeeze them from behind.”

“Oliver hasn’t enough soldiers to do that.”

Siobhan shook her head and chuckled. “Our allies will strike from a distance!” she insisted. “Hit with their bows at the back of the cyclopians, and run off across the fields.”

Luthien wasn’t so certain, but again he did not wish to press the argument. He continued to stare up at the ceiling, at the flickering shadows cast by the wind-dancing flames of the hearth. Soon he felt the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping Siobhan beside him, and then he, too, drifted off to sleep.

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, Siobhan 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.

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

“The cyclopians,” Luthien explained, and he slipped out from Siobhan’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?” Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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.”

Siobhan’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,” Siobhan 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.

Siobhan 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.

Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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 Siobhan’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.

Siobhan’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 Siobhan 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?” Siobhan 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.

Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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 Siobhan out to arm’s length, and his puzzled expression caught her off guard.

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

Siobhan 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,” Siobhan 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 Siobhan think of Luthien Bedwyr then, when the Crimson Shadow is needed no more?”

Even in the quiet light, Luthien could see that Siobhan’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.

Siobhan 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?”

Siobhan 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—”

“Were free then,” Siobhan interjected. “For that was before Greensparrow, nearly three decades before Greensparrow.”

Luthien quieted, but then realized that Siobhan’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,” Siobhan 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?” Siobhan put in. “I love you, Luthien Bedwyr.”

“But the rebellion is paramount,” Luthien stated.

It was a truth that Siobhan 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, Siobhan 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 Siobhan, 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 Siobhan.

“The cyclopians will not come into the city tomorrow,” Luthien repeated as Siobhan 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.