Luthien's Gamble

17 Implications

The battle—the rout—ended swiftly, with half of Belsen’Krieg’s force killed and the other half running off blindly into the open fields. Losses to the Eriadorans were remarkably light; the folk of Port Charley could count their dead on the fingers of six hands, though Luthien’s group, which had thrown itself into the cyclopian throng, was more battered.

Both Eriadoran armies gathered back together on the field near to where the Port Charley encampment had been. They tended their wounded, finished off any cyclopians who were sorely hurt, and put all the one-eye prisoners in line. Fortunately there weren’t many prisoners, less than a hundred altogether, and these, having seen their proud Praetorian Guards routed so horribly, were little trouble.

The storm grew around them all, the day darkening, though it was near to noon. Brind’Amour organized the march with all of his archers in front. They fought a small skirmish as they crossed Felling Run, a couple of volleys of arrows mostly. The cyclopians responded by hurling heavy spears, but, with typical cyclopian accuracy, not a single Eriadoran was hit.

There wasn’t much fight left in those entrenched Avon soldiers—they were beginning to break and flee before the Eriadorans ever got to the river. For the rest of that day, the biggest obstacle facing the army of Eriador was in getting back to the shelter of Caer MacDonald as the blizzard came on in full about them.

Back on Riverdancer, Luthien heard the cheers as he approached the walled city, for news of the rout had preceded the returning army. The young Bedwyr had lost a couple of friends this day, a woman and two men who frequented the Dwelf, but his sadness was tempered in the belief that his friends had not died in vain. They had won the day; Eriador had won the day! The victorious army along with their allies of Port Charley poured into the city, scattering among the streets, breaking up into small groups that they might recount the day’s glorious events.

Luthien, Katerin, and Oliver went back to the apartment in Tiny Alcove to catch up on the events of the last few weeks. The young Bedwyr was thrilled to see his dearest friends again, particularly Katerin. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the woman. Of course he thought of Siobhan and their encounter the previous evening, but he hadn’t really yet figured out what it all meant.

All that Luthien knew at the time was that he was glad, so glad, to see Katerin O’Hale once more.

Some time later, they were joined at the apartment by Brind’Amour, Siobhan, and Shuglin, who had also been quite busy that day.

“We killed every cyclopian running the streets of Caer MacDonald,” the dwarf assured them. “No more fires.”

Brind’Amour, reclining in the most comfortable of the three chairs in the small sitting room, hoisted a cup of wine in toast to that welcome news. Siobhan and Oliver, likewise seated and sipping wine, joined in, as did the other three, hoisting mugs of golden honey mead.

Seated on the stone hearth, Luthien looked across the open fireplace at Katerin, and they were warmed by more than the flames that burned between them.

“Well,” Shuglin corrected himself, shifting closer to the hearth, “no more unwanted fires!”

That brought a slight chuckle from the group.

“We still have several thousand cyclopians running free across the countryside,” Oliver remarked.

“Out in the blizzard,” Katerin snorted.

“We will catch those who survive the storm,” Siobhan said grimly.

Luthien nodded; on the way back into Caer MacDonald, pursuit groups had been arranged. The fleeing cyclopians would be hunted down.

“There are no towns nearby, except for Felling Downs,” Siobhan went on. “And the brutes will find no shelter there, for the houses have all been razed. Likely, they will turn for Port Charley.”

Luthien was hardly listening, more concerned with the half-elf’s serious tone. The hard day’s battle had been won, but Siobhan would not allow herself a break in the intensity. Yes, for Siobhan the rebellion was paramount, all-consuming. She would do whatever it took to free Eriador and free her people from Greensparrow.

Whatever it took, like bedding the Crimson Shadow? Luthien shook the notion away the moment he thought of it, scolding himself for thinking so little of Siobhan. There was something real between himself and the half-elf, something wonderful and warm, and though they both knew that it would never be more than it was now, Luthien vowed then and there that he would not look back on his lost relationship with Siobhan with doubt or remorse. He was a better man for knowing her; his life was happier because she remained a part of it. And in looking at her now, Luthien believed with all his heart that she felt the same way.

He turned his gaze from Siobhan, who continued talking of the duties still before them, across the hearth to Katerin. She had been staring at him, he realized, for she blushed (something rarely seen on Katerin’s tanned cheeks) and turned her green eyes away.

Luthien gave a small smile to hide the pain and closed his eyes, holding fast his image of the woman from Hale as he rested his head back. He dozed then, as the conversation continued, even intensified, about him.

“Our fearless leader,” Oliver remarked dryly, noticing Luthien’s pose and rhythmic breathing.

All five had a laugh at Luthien’s expense. Katerin reached across to shake him.

“Let him sleep,” Siobhan bade her. Immediate tension filled the air between the two women as Katerin turned to regard the half-elf.

“He has labored day and night,” Siobhan went on, ignoring the woman’s visage, an expression that revealed the rivalry between the two.

Katerin straightened and dropped her arm to her side.

“Well, of course those cyclopians who fled this day will be of little consequence,” Brind’Amour interjected, somewhat loudly and importantly, forcing all eyes to turn to him. “Many will die in the storm and those who do not will be in little condition to fight back when we catch up with them. They’ll make to the west, of course, to their fleet, which is no longer their fleet!”

“Can Port Charley resist them?” Oliver asked in all seriousness, for most of that town’s hardy souls were in Caer MacDonald.

“Few cyclopians will ever get there,” Siobhan promised.

“And we’ll get enough fighters there before the brutes arrive,” Brind’Amour was quick to add. “They will be dogged every step, and we know the faster ways. No, they’ll be little trouble. The army of Avon that came to our shores is defeated.”

“But what does that mean?” Shuglin asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.

Dead silence. In considering the long-term implications of this day’s victory, each of them realized that it might, after all, be only a small thing, a flickering reprieve in the darkness that was Greensparrow.

“It means that we have won a battle,” Brind’Amour said at length. “And now we have a fleet to hinder any further invasion through Port Charley.

“But Greensparrow will take us more seriously now,” the wizard warned. “The snow is deep, and that favors us and awards us some time, but the days are warmer now and it will not last for long. We can expect an army marching out from Malpuissant’s Wall soon after the melt, and likely another force coming through the passes of the Iron Cross, both of them greater than the force we just defeated on the field.”

What had been a celebration quickly dissolved, stolen by the grim dwarf’s necessary question and the obvious truth of the wizard’s reminder.

Brind’Amour scrutinized each of his companions. These five, he knew, were representative of the Eriadorans. There was Katerin, proud Katerin, desperate for a return to the days of Eriador’s freedom, Eriador’s glory. Most of the islanders were like her—on Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth—as were the folk of Port Charley and the tribes north of Eradoch, in the area of Bae Colthwyn.

There was Siobhan, angry Siobhan, stung by injustice and consumed by thoughts of revenge. So representative of the sophisticated people of Montfort—no, Caer MacDonald; it could be called that now—the wizard thought. She was the architect of it all, the cunning behind the rebellion, proud, but not too proud to allow the intrusions of a wizard when she understood that those intrusions would benefit her people.

There was Shuglin, whose people had suffered most of all. This one had moved past anger, Brind’Amour knew, and past resignation. Those dwarfs who had died in their suicidal ambush out by the fallen wall had been neither angry nor sad. They did as they believed they had to do, in the simple hope that Eriador, and their people, would have a better lot for their sacrifice. There he was, that blue-bearded dwarf, the purest of soldiers. Brind’Amour believed that if he had ten thousand like Shuglin, he could sweep Greensparrow and all of Avon from the face of the world.

There was Oliver, the epitome of Eriador’s many foreign rogues. The rough land was a favored destination for those who could not fit in, either in Avon or Gascony, or even in lands farther removed. Oliver’s value on the field could not be doubted, nor could his value as Luthien’s trusted companion. But the true worth of Oliver, and of the many others who would no doubt surface as the rebellion spread, would be found in his knowledge of other places and other people. Should this rebellion, this war, reach a level where Gascony saw fit to become involved, Oliver’s understanding of that place would prove invaluable. Oliver the diplomat? Brind’Amour considered that possibility for some time.

And there, last, was Luthien, still dozing with his back against the stone of the hearth. He was all of them, Brind’Amour realized. Proud as an islander, angry as one of Caer MacDonald, a pure, unselfish soldier, and the figurehead that Eriador desperately needed. After his exploits in the battle, Luthien had become undeniably the cornerstone on which Eriador would succeed or fail. Already the tale of “Luthien’s Gamble” was spreading far from the city walls, mingling with the stories of the Crimson Shadow, the mysterious enemy to all that evil Greensparrow represented. Who would have guessed that the young man from Bedwydrin could rise so fast to such notoriety?

“I would have!” Brind’Amour answered his own question suddenly, and unintentionally, aloud. Embarrassed, the wizard cleared his throat many times and glanced about.

“What was that?” Luthien asked, stretching as he came awake.

“Nothing, nothing,” the wizard apologized. “Just exercising my jaw at the mind’s request, you know.”

The others shrugged and let it go at that, except for shrewd Oliver, who kept his gaze on the wizard as though he was reading Brind’Amour’s every thought.

“You know,” the halfling began, drawing everyone’s attention, “I was once in the wild land of Angarothe.” Seeing that his proclamation apparently didn’t impress anybody, the halfling quickly explained. “A hot and dusty land some distance to the south of Gascony.”

“The War of Angar?” inquired Brind’Amour, more worldly than the others, despite the fact that he had spent most of the last few centuries asleep in a cave.

“War of anger?” Luthien snickered.

“Angar,” Oliver corrected, appearing insulted. “Indeed,” he answered the wizard. “I fought with deBoise himself, in the Fourth Regiment of Cabalaise.”

The wizard cocked an eyebrow and nodded, seeming impressed, though the reference meant absolutely nothing to the others in the room. Oliver puffed with pride and looked about, but quickly deflated as he realized the ignorance of his audience.

“The Fourth of Cabalaise,” he said with some importance. “We were in deepest Angarothe, behind the Red Lancers, the largest and most terrible of that country’s armies.”

Brind’Amour met the curious gaze of each of the others and nodded his understanding, lending gravity to Oliver’s tale, though the wizard highly doubted that Oliver had ever been anywhere near to Angarothe. Few Gascons who had gone to that wild land had ever returned. But Brind’Amour did know the tale of deBoise and the Fourth, one of the classic victories in the history of warfare.

“We could not win,” Oliver went on. “We were two hundred against several thousand, and not one of us thought that we would come out of there alive.”

“And what did you do?” Luthien asked after a long and dramatic pause, giving the halfling the necessary prompt.

Oliver snapped his fingers in the air and blew a cocky whistle. “We attacked, of course.”

“He speaks truly,” Brind’Amour interjected before the expressions of profound doubt could grow on the faces of the other four. “DeBoise spread his line along the foliage marking the perimeter of the enemy encampment, each man with a drum. They used sticks to bang against trees, imitated the calls of huge elephants and other such warbeasts, all to make their enemy believe that they were many more, an entire army.”

“The Red Lancers were weary of battle,” Oliver added. “And they had no good ground to wage such a fight. And so they retreated to a mountain.”

“DeBoise watched them and dogged them with empty threats, every step,” Brind’Amour finished. “By the time the leaders of the Red Lancers came to understand the bluff, the Fourth had found the reinforcements it needed. The Red Lancers of Angarothe came off the mountain, thinking to overwhelm the small force, but were themselves overwhelmed. The only Gascon victory of the campaign.”

Oliver turned a sour look on the old man at that last statement, but it melted away quickly, the halfling too eager to announce his own part in the strategic coup. “They wanted to call it Oliver’s Bluff,” he asserted.

Brind’Amour did well to hide his chuckle.

“A fine tale,” Shuglin said, obviously not too impressed.

“But does it have a point?” Katerin wanted to know.

Oliver huffed and shook his head as though the question was ridiculous. “Are we not like the Fourth Regiment of Cabalaise?” he asked.

“Say it plainly,” Shuglin demanded.

“We attack, of course,” Oliver replied without hesitation. That widened more than a few eyes! Oliver paid no heed to their incredulity, but looked at the wizard, where he suspected he would find some support.

Brind’Amour nodded and smiled—he had been hoping all along that one of the others would make that very suggestion and save him the trouble. The wizard realized that he was more valuable agreeing with plans than in convincing the rebels to follow plans he had constructed.

Katerin rose from the hearth and slapped her hands against the back of her dusty breeches. “Attack where?” she demanded, obviously thinking the whole notion ridiculous.

“Attack the wall,” Brind’Amour answered. “Malpuissant’s Wall, before Greensparrow can run his army of Princetown north.”

Suddenly the prospect didn’t seem so absurd to Luthien. “Take Dun Caryth and cut the land in half,” he put in. “With the mountains and the wall, and a fleet to guard our ports, we will force Greensparrow to attack us on ground of our choosing.”

“And the daring conquest will make him think that we are stronger than we are,” Oliver added slyly.

Siobhan’s green eyes sparkled with hope. “And stronger we shall be,” she asserted, “when the northern lands learn of our victory here, when all of Eriador realizes the truth of the rebellion.” She looked around at the others, practically snarling with eagerness. “When all of Eriador comes to hope.”

“Oliver’s Bluff?” Brind’Amour offered.

No one disagreed and the halfling beamed—for just a moment. Suddenly it occurred to Oliver, who of course had not really been with deBoise in Angarothe, that he had set them all on a most daring and dangerous course. He cleared his throat, and his expression revealed his anxiety. “I do fear,” he admitted, and felt the weight of Luthien’s gaze, and Siobhan’s, Shuglin’s, and Katerin’s as well, upon his little round shoulders. “They have wizard types,” the halfling went on, trying to justify his sudden turn. He felt that he had to show some doubt to avoid blame in the face of potential disaster. But if this did go off, and especially if it proved successful, the halfling dearly wanted it to be known as Oliver’s Bluff. “I am not so keen on the idea of daring a group of wizard-types.”

Brind’Amour waved the argument away. “Magic is not what it used to be, my dear Oliver,” he assured the halfling, assured them all. “Else Morkney would have left Luthien in ashes atop the Ministry and left you frozen as a gargoyle on the side of the tower! And I would have been of more use on the field, I promise.” There was conviction in the wizard’s words. Ever since he had left the cave that had served for so long as his home, Brind’Amour had realized that the essence of magic had changed. It was still there, tingling in the air, though not nearly as strong as it had once been. The wizard understood the reason. Greensparrow’s dealing with demons had perverted the art, had made it something dark and evil, and that, in turn, had weakened the very fabric of the universal tapestry, the source of magical power. Brind’Amour felt a deep lament at the loss, a nostalgia for the old days when a skilled wizard was so very powerful, when the finest of wizards could take on an entire army in the field and send them running. But Brind’Amour understood well enough that in this war with Greensparrow and the king’s wizard-dukes, where he was the only wizard north of the mountains, an apparent lack of magical strength might be Eriador’s only hope.

“To the wall, then,” he said.

Luthien looked at Katerin, then to Shuglin, and finally, to Siobhan, but he needed no confirmation from his friends this time. Caer MacDonald was free, but it could not remain so if they waited for Greensparrow to make the next move. The war was a chess game and they were playing white.

It was time to move.