R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Intriguing, but Luthien had no time to study it further; Shuglin guaranteed him a count of twenty-five, no longer. He closed the box and crept away, back into the shadows, back into the apse, through the door and onto the lowest stairs. There, he paused, watching.

With a hiss and a sputter, the black box exploded, igniting the pile. Cyclopians hooted and shouted, charging in all directions.

A second explosion sounded, and then a third and a fourth, close together, and the water kegs burst apart.

Luthien turned and sprinted up the stairs, smiling as he heard four more distinctive blasts.

“I take it that we are done,” Oliver remarked between bites of mutton when the young man, huffing and puffing, stumbled out onto the tower’s top.

“We have to go and tell the guards around the plaza to be alert,” Luthien replied. “The cyclopians will try to break out soon.”

Oliver took one last bite, wiped his greasy hands on the furred cape of one of the dead cyclopians, and moved to the wall, where the grapnel and rope were already fastened to the longer cord that reached all the way to the street, ready to take them down.

Inside the Ministry, the cyclopians found most of their provisions ruined and nearly all of their potable water lost. They jostled and fought amongst themselves, every one blaming another, until one brute found the answer in the form of a crimson shadow of a caped man, indelibly stained on the wall of the eastern apse.

Luthien’s enchanted cape had left its mark.

Word raced up Avon’s western coast, across the mountains into Eriador, and from village to village, to Caer MacDonald and beyond. A great fleet was sailing, bracing the freezing waters: at least fifty Avon ships, enough to carry more than ten thousand Praetorian Guards. And those ships were low in the water, said the rumors, low and brimming with soldiers.

The news was received stoically at the Dwelf. Luthien and his companions had expected the army, of course, but the final confirmation that it was all more than rumor, that Greensparrow was indeed aware of the rebellion and responding with an iron fist, sobered the mood.

“I will set out for Port Charley in the morning,” Luthien told his gathered commanders. “A hard ride will get me there before the Avon fleet arrives.”

“You cannot,” Siobhan replied simply, with finality.

Luthien looked hard at her, as did Oliver, who was about to volunteer to ride off beside his friend (all the while hoping that he might turn Luthien north instead, back into hiding in the wilds).

“You govern Caer MacDonald,” the half-elf explained.

“Do not leaders often sally forth from the place they lead?” Oliver remarked.

“Not when that place is in turmoil,” the half-elf answered. “We expect a breakout from the Ministry any day.”

“The one-eyes will be slaughtered in the open plaza,” Oliver said with all confidence, a confidence that was widespread among all the rebels.

“And Luthien Bedwyr must be there,” Siobhan went on without hesitation. “When that fight is done, the city will be ours, wholly ours. It would not be appropriate for that important moment to pass with the leader of the rebellion halfway to Port Charley.”

“We cannot underestimate the importance of Port Charley,” Luthien interjected, feeling a little left out of it all, as if he weren’t even in the room, or at least as though he didn’t have to be in the room. “Port Charley will prove critical to the rebellion and to Caer MacDonald. Even as we sit here bantering, Shuglin’s people work frantically to prepare the defenses of the city. If the whispers speak truly, then an army equal in size to our own force will soon march upon our gates.”

“Equal odds favor the defense,” Katerin O’Hale remarked.

“But these are Praetorian Guards,” Luthien emphasized. “Huge and strong, superbly trained and equipped, and no doubt the veterans of many campaigns.”

“You doubt our own prowess?” Katerin wanted to know, her tone sharply edged with anger.

“I want the best possible outcome,” Luthien firmly corrected. In his heart, though, he did indeed doubt the rabble army’s ability to hold against ten thousand Praetorian Guards, and so did everyone else in the room, proud Katerin included.

“Thus, Port Charley is all-important,” Luthien went on. “They have not declared an alliance, and as you yourself have pointed out,” he said to Katerin, “they will not be easily convinced.”

The red-haired woman leaned back in her chair and slid it out from the table, visibly backing off from the conversation.

“We must bottle that fleet up in the harbor,” Luthien explained. “If the folk of Port Charley do not allow them to pass, they will have to sail on, and might waste many days searching for a new place to land.”

“And every day they are at sea is another day they might encounter a storm,” Oliver said slyly.

Luthien nodded. “And another day that they will tax their provisions and, knowing cyclopians, their patience,” he agreed. “And another day that Shuglin and his kin have to complete their traps around the outer walls of Caer MacDonald. The fleet must be kept out. We cannot fail in this.”

“Agreed,” Siobhan replied. “But you are not the one to go.” Luthien started to respond, but she kept on talking, cutting him off. “Others are qualified to serve as emissaries, and it will not look as good as you believe to have the leader of the rebellion walking into Port Charley, to say nothing of the reaction from the cyclopians already in that town.

“You think that you will impress them with your presence,” Siobhan went on, brutally honest, but her tone in no way condescending. “All that you will impress them with is your foolishness and innocence. Your place is here—the leaders of Port Charley will know that—and if you show up there, you will not strike them as a man wise enough for them to follow into war.”

Luthien, slack-jawed, his shoulders slumped, looked over at Oliver for support.

“She’s not so bad,” the halfling admitted.

Luthien had no way to disagree, no arguments against the simple logic. Again he felt as if Siobhan, and not he, was in control, as if he were a puppet, its strings pulled by that beautiful and sly half-elf. He didn’t like the feeling, not at all, but he was glad that Siobhan was at his side, preventing him from making foolish mistakes. Luthien thought of Brind’Amour then, realizing more clearly than ever that he was out of his element and in desperate need of aid.

“Who will go, then?” Oliver asked Siobhan, for Luthien, by his expression alone, had obviously conceded the floor to her on this matter. “Yourself? I do not think one who is half-elven will make so fine an impression.”

Oliver meant no insult, and Siobhan, concerned only for the success of the rebellion, took none.

“I will go,” Katerin promptly put in. All eyes turned her way, and Luthien leaned forward again on his stool, suddenly very interested and worried.

“I know the people of Port Charley better than anyone here,” Katerin stated.

“Have you ever been there?” Oliver asked.

“I am from Hale, a town not so unlike Port Charley,” Katerin answered. “My people think the same way as those independent folk. We have never succumbed to the rule of Greensparrow. We have never succumbed to any rule save our own, and tolerate kings and dukes only because we do not care about them.”

Luthien was shaking his head. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be away from Katerin right now. And he didn’t want her riding off alone to the west. Word of the fight in Caer MacDonald had spread throughout the southland of Eriador, and none of them knew what dangers might await any emissary on the road.