R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

“Montfort!” someone yelled.

“No!” Luthien quickly interjected, before any chant could begin.

“No,” the young Bedwyr went on. “Montfort is just a place on a map, a map in the halls of King Greensparrow.” That name brought more than a few hisses. “It is a place to conquer, and to burn.” Luthien swept his hand around to the plume of smoke behind him, diminished now, but still rising.

“What gain in taking Montfort and burning Montfort?” he called out above the confused murmurs. “What gain in possessing buildings and items, in holding things, simple things, that Greensparrow can come back and take from us?

“No gain, I say,” Luthien continued. “If it was Montfort that we conquered, then we have accomplished nothing!”

A thousand shrugs, a thousand whispers, and a thousand curious questions filtered back to Luthien as he paused and held his conclusion, baiting the crowd, building their anxiety.

“But it was not Montfort!” he cried at last, and the whispers diminished, though the curious, confused expressions did not. “It was nothing that King Greensparrow—no, simply Greensparrow, for he is no king of mine—can take from us. It was not Montfort, I say. Not something to conquer and to burn. It was Caer MacDonald that we took back!”

The plaza exploded in roars, in cheers—for Luthien, for Caer MacDonald. The young Bedwyr looked at the beaming Siobhan. Remember the city’s true name, she had coached him, and now that he had spoken the words, Siobhan looked different to Luthien. She seemed as if the cloud had passed from her face, she seemed vindicated and confident. No, more than confident, he realized. She seemed secure.

Siobhan, who had been a merchant’s slave, who had fought secretly against the ruling class for years and who had stood beside Luthien since his rise in the underground hierarchy, seemed free at last.

“Caer MacDonald!” Luthien yelled when the gathering had quieted somewhat. “And what does that mean? Bruce MacDonald, who fought the cyclopians, what did he fight for?”

“Freedom!” came a cry directly below the platform, and Luthien did not have to look down to know that it was the voice of Katerin O’Hale.

The call was echoed from every corner of the plaza, around the city’s dividing wall, and through the streets of the city’s lower section. It came to the ears of those who were even then looting the wealthiest houses of the city, and to those who had burned the merchants’ houses, and they were ashamed.

“We have taken back not a place, but an ideal,” Luthien explained. “We have taken back what we were, and what we must be. In Caer MacDonald, we have found the heart of our hero of old, but it is no more than a small piece, a tiny gain, a candle’s flicker in a field of darkness. And in taking that, in raising the flag of Caer MacDonald over the Ministry once more . . .” He paused, giving the crowd the moment to glance at the great structure’s tall tower, where some figures were stirring.

“And we shall!” Luthien promised them when they looked back, and he had to pause again until the cheering died down.

“In taking back this piece of our heritage, we have accepted a responsibility,” he went on. “We have lit a flame, and now we must fan that flame and share its light. To Port Charley, in the west. To the isles, Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth, in the north. To Bronegan, south of the northern range, and to Rrohlwyn and their northern tip. To Chalmbers and the Fields of Eradoch in the east and to Dun Caryth, until all the dark veil of Greensparrow is lifted, until the Iron Cross and Malpuissant’s Wall divide more than land. Until Eriador is free!”

It was the perfect ending, Luthien thought, played to the perfect syllable and perfect emphasis. He felt exhausted but euphoric, as tired as if he had just waged a single-handed battle against a hundred cyclopians, and as satisfied as if he had won that fight.

The thrill, the comradery, was back within the swelled ranks of the rebels. Luthien knew, and Siobhan knew, that the danger had passed at least for the moment.

The armies of Greensparrow would come, but if Luthien and his friends could maintain the sense of higher purpose, could hold fast to the truths that lay in their hearts, they could not lose.

Whatever ground Greensparrow reclaimed, whatever lives his army claimed, they could not lose.

The rally did not lose momentum as the minutes slipped past; it would have gone on all the day, it seemed, and long into the night. But a voice sounded from the top of the Ministry, an answer to the claims of Luthien Bedwyr.

“Fools, all!” cried a figure standing tall atop the tower’s battlements, and even from this distance, some four hundred feet, Luthien knew it to be Viscount Aubrey. “What have you taken but a piece of land? What have you won but a moment’s reprieve and the promise of swift and terrible vengeance?”

That stole more than a little of the mirth and hope.

Luthien considered the man, his adversary. Even with all that had transpired, Aubrey appeared unshaken, still meticulously groomed and powdered, still the picture of royalty and strength.

Feigned strength, the battle-toughened Luthien pointedly told himself, for though Aubrey wore the weapons and ribbons of a warrior, he was better at ducking a fight than waging one.

Luthien hated him, hated everything he stood for, but could not deny the man’s influence over the crowd, which did not recognize the ruse for what it was.

“Do you think that you can win?” Aubrey spat with a derisive snicker. “Do you think that King Greensparrow, who has conquered countries, who even now wages war in lands south of Gascony, and who has ruled for twenty years, is even concerned? Fools, all! Your winter snows will not protect you! Bask in the glories of victory, but know that this victory is a fleeting thing, and know that you, every one, will pay with your very souls for your audacity!”

Oliver called up to Luthien, getting the man’s attention. “Tell him that he was stupid for not better blocking the sewers,” the halfling said.

Luthien understood Oliver’s motives, but doubted the value of his methods. Aubrey had a powerful weapon here, a very real fear among the rebels that they had started something they could not hope to finish. Montfort—Caer MacDonald—was free, but the rest of their world was not, and the force they had beaten in this city was a tiny fraction of the might Greensparrow could hurl at them.

They all knew it, and so did confident Aubrey, standing tall atop the impervious tower, apparently beyond their reach.

When Luthien did not move to answer, Oliver did. “You talk so brave, but fight so stupid!” the halfling yelled out. A few half-hearted cheers arose, but did not seem to faze the viscount.

“He didn’t even block the sewers,” Oliver explained loudly. “If his king fights with equal wisdom, then we will dine in the palace of Avon by summer’s end!”

That brought a cheer, but Aubrey promptly quenched it. “The same king who conquered all of Eriador,” he reminded the gathering.

It could not go on, Luthien realized. They could gain nothing by their banter with Aubrey and would only continually be reminded of the enormity of the task before them. Oliver, sharp-witted as he was, had no ammunition to use against the viscount, no verbal barbs which could stick the man and no verbal salves to soothe the fears that Aubrey was inciting.

Luthien realized then that Siobhan had moved to stand beside him.

“Finish your speech,” the half-elf said to him, lifting a curious arrow out of her quiver. It looked different from her other bolts, its shaft a bright red hue, its fletching made not of feathers but of some material even the half-elf did not know. She had discovered the arrow that morning, and as soon as she had touched it, it had imparted distinct telepathic instructions, had told her its purpose, and for some reason that she did not understand, the telepathic voice seemed familiar to her.