R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

“The signal!” Gretel motioned toward a flickering light to the north. She held up her own lantern to the south, unhooded it for just a moment, then again, and the message was relayed all down the line.

Brind’Amour, Oliver, and Katerin stepped into their small boat along with two of Port Charley’s folk, a husband and wife.

“In Gascony we have such bugs as we are this night,” Oliver said to them, quieting his tone as both Brind’Amour and Katerin shhh ’d him. “They come from Espan, mostly, and so does their name,” the halfling continued in a whisper. “Mosquitoes. Clever bugs. You hear them in your ear and swat at them, but they are not there. They are somewhere else on your body, taking drops of your blood.

“We are mosquitoes,” the halfling decided. “Mosquitoes on Greensparrow.”

“Then let us hope that enough mosquitoes can suck a body dry,” Brind’Amour remarked, and they all went silent, drifting out from the docks, the oars barely touching the water, for stealth and not speed was the order of business this night.

Oliver was first up the anchor rope of the first ship they came upon, the halfling swiftly climbing hand over hand to the rail. He paused there, and then, to everyone’s disbelief, he began talking.

“Greetings, my one-eyed, bow-legged, wave-riding, so ugly friend,” he said, and reached under his cloak and produced a flask. “You are missing all the fun, but fear not, I, Oliver deBurrows, have brought the fun to you!”

Most alarmed were the villagers in the rowboat, but Katerin, who was beginning to figure this strange halfling out (and was beginning to understand why Luthien liked Oliver so much), stood up and steadied herself in the boat, taking the longbow from her shoulder.

They couldn’t see what was transpiring beyond the rail, just Oliver’s back, his purple cape fluttering in the breeze. “I have brought you a woman, as well,” the halfling said. “But that will cost you a few of your so fine Avon gold pieces.”

Predictably, the eager cyclopian leaned over the rail to get a look at the goods, and Katerin wasted no time in putting her arrow into the brute’s head.

Even as the bolt struck the mark, Oliver grabbed the cyclopian by the collar and heaved. The one-eye hit the water between the ship and the rowboat, bobbing facedown after the initial waves had settled.

Brind’Amour wanted to call up and scold Oliver, for the noise was too great. Suppose other cyclopians were about on the deck? But Oliver was out of sight.

There was indeed another cyclopian awake and roaming the deck, but by the time Katerin, the next up the rope, had made the rail, it was already dead, Oliver standing atop its massive chest, wiping his bloodstained rapier blade on its cloak.

“Mosquitoes,” the halfling whispered to her. “Buzz buzz.”

And so it went up and down the line, with every ship boarded and taken.

Back on shore, the killing commenced as well, and in only two of the twelve houses and one of the taverns did the cyclopians have enough wits about them to even put up a struggle.

When the wizard’s fog cleared later that night, nearly twenty of Port Charley’s folk were dead, another seven wounded, but not a cyclopian remained alive in the town, or in the harbor, and the rebels now possessed a fleet of seventy fine warships.

“It was too easy,” Brind’Amour said to Oliver and Katerin before the three retired that night.

“They did not expect any trouble,” Katerin replied.

Brind’Amour nodded.

“They underestimate us,” Oliver added.

Still the wizard nodded. “And if that truth holds, Montfort will not be taken,” he said. The wizard dearly hoped he was right, but he remembered the image of mighty Belsen’Krieg, sophisticated, yet vicious, and doubted that the days ahead would be as easy as this night.

Late the next morning, so that the mosquitoes had the time for a good night’s rest, the town of Port Charley organized its own force, nearly a thousand strong. With Katerin upon Riverdancer, Oliver on Threadbare, and Brind’Amour on a fine roan stallion, joining old Phelpsi Dozier—who had been a commander in the first war against Greensparrow twenty years before—at the head of the column, the soldiers started out toward the east.

Heading for Montfort, which Brind’Amour would not yet let them call Caer MacDonald.

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.