R. Salvatore - Luthien's Gamble

Luthien locked stares with Katerin for a long moment, then cleared his throat again. “What news from Avon?” he asked Siobhan.

Siobhan looked over her left shoulder to her other companion, an elf dressed in many layers of thick cloth and furs. He had rosy cheeks and long eyelashes that glistened with crystals of melting ice.

“It is not promising, good sir,” the elf said to Luthien, with obvious reverence.

Luthien winced a bit, still uncomfortable with such formal treatment. He was the leader of the rebels, put forth as the hero of Eriador, and those who were not close to him always called him “good sir” or “my lord,” out of respect.

“Reports continue that an army is on the way from Avon,” the elf went on. “There are rumors of a great gathering of cyclopian warriors—Praetorian Guard, I would assume—in Princetown.”

It made sense to Luthien. Princetown lay diagonally across the Iron Cross to the southeast. It was not physically the closest to Montfort of Avon’s major cities, but it was the closest to Malpuissant’s Wall, the only pass through the great mountains that an army could hope to navigate, even in midsummer, let alone in the harsh winter.

Still, any march from Princetown to Montfort, crossing through the fortress of Dun Caryth, which anchored Malpuissant’s Wall to the Iron Cross, would take many weeks, and the rate of attrition in the harsh weather would be taxing. Luthien took some comfort in the news, for it didn’t seem probable that Greensparrow would strike out from Princetown until the spring melt was in full spate.

“There is another possibility,” the elf said grimly, seeing the flicker of hope in the young Bedwyr’s eyes.

“Port Charley,” guessed Katerin, referring to the seaport west of Montfort.

The elf nodded.

“Is the rumor based in knowledge or in fear?” Oliver asked.

“I do not know that there is a rumor at all,” the elf replied.

“Fear,” Oliver decided, and well-founded , he silently added. As the realities of the fighting in Montfort had settled in and the rebels turned their eyes outside the embattled city, talk of an Avon fleet sailing into Port Charley abounded. It seemed a logical choice for Greensparrow. The straits between Baranduine and Avon were treacherous in the winter, and icebergs were not uncommon, but it was not so far a sail, and the great ships of Avon could carry many, many cyclopians.

“What allies—” Luthien began to ask, but the elf cut him short, fully expecting the question.

“The folk of Port Charley are no friend of cyclopians,” he said. “No doubt they are glad that one-eyes are dying in Montfort, and that Duke Morkney was slain.”

“But . . .” Oliver prompted, correctly interpreting the elf’s tone.

“But they have declared no allegiance to our cause,” the elf finished.

“Nor will they,” Katerin put in. All eyes turned to her, some questioning, wondering what she knew. Luthien understood, for he had often been to Hale, Katerin’s home, an independent, free-spirited town not so different from Port Charley. Still, he wasn’t so sure that Katerin’s reasoning was sound. The names of ancient heroes, of Bruce MacDonald, sparked pride and loyalty in all Eriadorans, the folk of Port Charley included.

“If a fleet does sail, it must be stopped at the coast,” Luthien said determinedly.

Katerin shook her head. “If you try to bring an army into Port Charley, you will be fighting,” she said. “But not with allies of Greensparrow.”

“Would they let the cyclopians through?” Oliver asked.

“If they will not join with us, then they will not likely oppose Greensparrow,” Siobhan put in.

Luthien’s mind raced with possibilities. Could he bring Port Charley into the revolution? And if not, could he and his rebels hope to hold out against an army of Avon?

“Perhaps we should consider again our course,” Oliver offered a moment later.

“Consider our course?” Katerin and Siobhan said together.

“Go back underground,” the halfling replied. “The winter is too cold for much fighting anyway. So we stop fighting. And you and I,” he said to Luthien, nudging his friend, “will fly away like wise little birds.”

The open proclamation that perhaps this riot had gotten a bit out of hand sobered the mood of all those near to the halfling, even the many eavesdroppers who were not directly in on the conversation. Oliver had reminded them all of the price of failure.

Siobhan looked at her elvish companion, who only shrugged helplessly.

“Our lives were not so bad before the fight,” Tasman remarked, walking by Luthien and Oliver on the other side of the bar.

“There is a possibility of diplomacy,” Siobhan said. “Even now. Aubrey knows that he cannot put down the revolt without help from Avon, and he dearly craves the position of duke. He might believe that if he could strike a deal and rescue Montfort, Greensparrow would reward him with the title.”

Luthien looked past the speaker, into the eyes of Katerin O’Hale, green orbs that gleamed with angry fires. The notion of diplomacy, of surrender, apparently did not sit well with the proud warrior woman.

Behind Katerin, several patrons were jostled and then pushed aside. Then Katerin, too, was nudged forward as a squat figure, four feet tall but sturdy, sporting a bushy blue-black beard, shoved his way to stand before Luthien.

“What’s this foolish talk?” the dwarf Shuglin demanded, his gnarly fists clenched as though he meant to leap up and throttle Luthien at any moment.

“We are discussing our course,” Oliver put in. The halfling saw the fires in Shuglin’s eyes. Angry fires—for the dwarf, now that he had found some hope and had tasted freedom, often proclaimed that he would prefer death over a return to subjugation.

Shuglin snorted. “You decided your course that day in the Ministry,” he roared. “You think you can go back now?”

“Not I, nor Luthien,” the halfling admitted. “But for the rest . . .”

Shuglin wasn’t listening. He shoved between Luthien and Oliver, grabbed the edge of the bar, and heaved himself up to stand above the crowd.

“Hey!” he roared and the Dwelf went silent. Even Tasman, though certainly not appreciating the heavy boots on his polished bar, held back.

“Who in here is for surrendering?” Shuglin called.

The Dwelf’s crowd remained silent.

“Shuglin,” Luthien began, trying to calm his volatile friend.

The dwarf ignored him. “Who in here is for killing Aubrey and raising the flag of Caer MacDonald?”

The Dwelf exploded in cheers. Swords slid free of their sheaths and were slapped together above the heads of the crowd. Calls for Aubrey’s head rang out from every corner.

Shuglin hopped down between Oliver and Luthien. “You got your answer,” he growled, and he moved to stand between Katerin and Siobhan, his gaze steeled upon Luthien and muscular arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Luthien didn’t miss the smile that Katerin flashed at the dwarf, nor the pat she gave to him.

Of everything the dwarf had said, the most important was the ancient name of Montfort, Caer MacDonald, a tribute to Eriador’s hero of old.

“Well said, my friend,” Oliver began. “But—”

That was as far as the halfling got.

“Bruce MacDonald is more than a name,” Luthien declared.

“So is the Crimson Shadow,” Siobhan unexpectedly added.

Luthien paused for just an instant, to turn a curious and appreciative look at the half-elf. “Bruce MacDonald is an ideal,” Luthien went on. “A symbol for the folk of Eriador. And do you know what Bruce MacDonald stands for?”

“Killing cyclopians?” asked Oliver, who was from Gascony and not Eriador.