R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

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.

Luthien barely slept the rest of that night, just lay in his bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking of Siobhan and Katerin, and the enemy. Mostly the enemy: his enemy, the hulking, ugly cyclopian, more cunning than any one-eye Luthien had ever known.

Siobhan returned to the apartment an hour before dawn to find Luthien fully awake, dressed, and sitting in a chair before the hearth, staring into the rekindled flames.

“He’s not going to come,” Luthien said to her, his voice even, certain. “He’s going to take his army across the river and catch Oliver’s force unawares.”

After a few moments of silence, with Siobhan making no move to reply, Luthien glanced over his shoulder to regard the half-elf. She stood by the door, holding his cloak.

Luthien pulled on his boots and went to her, taking the garment and following her out of the apartment.

The city was already awake, full of activity, and most of the bustle was nearby. Siobhan had gathered practically all of the army, ready to follow Luthien out of Caer MacDonald. The snow had turned into sleet and then to rain, but the wind had not abated. A thoroughly miserable morning, and yet, here they were, the thousands of Caer MacDonald’s makeshift militia, ready to march hard and fast to the west, ready to brave the elements and the cyclopians. Luthien knew who had prompted them.

He looked at the half-elf then, standing calmly by his side, and his eyes were moist with tears of gratitude. He understood the depth of his gamble—if he was wrong and his adversary struck again against Caer MacDonald, the city would be overrun. Siobhan knew that, too, and so did every man and woman, every elf and dwarf, who had come out here this morning. They would take the gamble; they would trust in Luthien.

The young Bedwyr felt a huge weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, but he allowed himself only a moment of doubt. He had played this out in his mind over and over throughout the night and was confident that he understood his adversary, that he was correctly anticipating the enemy’s move.

Siobhan and Shuglin pulled him to the side.

“I am not going with you,” the dwarf informed him.

Luthien looked at Shuglin curiously, not knowing what to make of the unexpected declaration.

“The dwarfs will comprise most of the defenders left in Caer MacDonald,” Siobhan explained. “They are best with the ballistae and catapults, and they have rigged traps that only they know how to spring.”

“And we are not much good in the deep snow,” Shuglin added with a chuckle. “Beards get all icy, you know.”

Luthien realized then that Shuglin’s hesitance to go out had nothing to do with any doubts the dwarf might harbor. Caer MacDonald had to remain at least moderately defended, for even if Luthien’s assessment proved correct, the cyclopians might send a token force at the city to keep the defenders within the walls distracted.

“You have all the horses,” Shuglin began, turning to the business at hand and unrolling a map of the region. “There are a few among you who know well the trails you’ll need—we have even dispatched scouts to report back as you go along, in case the weather forces you to take an alternate route.” As he spoke, the dwarf moved his stubby finger along the map, through the foothills beyond Caer MacDonald’s southern gate, out to the west, around the Port Charley encampment, and then circling back to the north, back to the fields where they would meet the cyclopians.

They set out without delay, a long stream of six thousand desperate, determined warriors. All of the elves were among the ranks, and all of the cavalry group, though fewer than two hundred fit horses could be found in the entire city. Like ghosts in the predawn dark, they went without lights, without any bustle. Quietly.

Many carried longbows, each archer weighed down by several quivers of arrows. One group carried packs of bandages and salves, and the two dozen dwarfs that did go along were broken into groups of four, each group supporting a huge log across their shoulders. The going was slow on the slick trails—Luthien and the other horsemen had to walk their mounts all the way through the foothills—but the rain had cut hard into the snow. Every now and then they encountered a deep drift, and they bored right through it, using swords and axes as ice picks and shovels.