Luthien's Gamble by R. A. Salvatore
“Know this as an important day,” the young Bedwyr remarked. “The first true test of Avon’s army.”
“And of our own,” Siobahn added.
Luthien started to argue, was going to remark that the taking of Montfort had been their first test, but he stopped, admitting the truth of Siobahn’s words. This would be the first time the rebels battled with a large contingent of Praetorian Guards, a trained and prepared army.
“The group is away?” Luthien asked.
Siobahn nodded, and unconsciously looked to the west.
“And you will soon set out to join with them?” Luthien asked. The question was rhetorical, for of course Siobahn would rush to catch up with those who would soon see battle. “Then we must hurry,” the young Bedwyr quickly added.
The fact that he had suddenly included himself in the ambush was not lost on Siobahn. She stared long and hard at Luthien, and he could not determine if her look was approving or not.
“You are too valua—” came the beginning of her response.
“We are all too valuable,” the young Bedwyr said, determined that he would not be turned away this time. Lately, every time Luthien included himself in plans that would likely lead to fierce combat, someone, usually Siobahn, would pipe in that he was too valuable to risk himself so.
Siobahn knew better than to argue. She could convince Luthien of many things, could guide him through many decisions, but she had learned during the taking of Montfort that no amount of coercion would keep the brave young man out of harm’s way.
“This is the test of Avon’s army,” Luthien explained. “And I must see how they respond.”
Siobahn thought of several arguments against that course, primarily that the defense of Caer MacDonald, and the morale of the rebels, would be weakened indeed if Luthien Bedwyr, the Crimson Shadow, was killed before the cyclopians even reached the city walls. She kept her doubts private, though, and decided to trust in Luthien. He had been in on every major skirmish within the city, and whether it was skill or just dumb luck, he had come through it all practically unscathed.
They set out together almost immediately, running west and then north, along with a few elven archers. Less than an hour after the dawn, the three hundred warriors, hand-picked for this important battle, lay in wait within a mile south of the bridge over the small river known as Felling Run. Across the water to the east, the marauders could see the plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of Felling Downs, more bait for the cyclopians.
And soon after, to the north, they caught their first glimpse of Avon’s army, a huge black and silver mass, tearing up the turf, shaking the ground as they stomped determinedly on. Luthien held his breath for many moments after he realized the extent of that force. He thought of Oliver and the halfling’s plan to abandon the rebellion and flee to the northland, and he wondered, for the first time, if Oliver might not have been right.
FELLING DOWNS
The plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of Felling Downs were in sight as the cyclopian force plodded along, traveling generally southeast now. They came to Felling Run, a small river, a swollen stream really, being no more than twenty feet across and averaging about waist deep. Running water was visible from the high banks, but most of the river remained frozen over, patches of gray ice lined by white snow.
Belsen’Krieg walked his sturdy ponypig right up to the bank, just south of the one bridge in sight, and considered the water and the town beyond. They could cross here and turn directly south for Montfort, crushing the village on their way, or they could turn south now and head into the foothills west of the city. The huge and ugly cyclopian leader still wanted to sack this town, still thought that the blood and the supplies would do his force good, but he was leery for some reason that he did not understand. Perhaps it was that the town was too tempting, too easy a kill. The people here knew that the cyclopians were on the way. Belsen’Krieg was certain of that, especially considering the peppering his force had taken all the way from Port Charley. Everyone in the south of Eriador knew about the march, and many obviously did not approve. So why would the folk of the village across the river remain in their homes, knowing that the cyclopians would be coming through? And why, Belsen’Krieg pondered, had the rebels in Montfort left this bridge, obviously the easiest route to the captured city, standing?
“A delay, my lord?” came a question from behind, startling the unusually introspective cyclopian. Belsen’Krieg looked over his shoulder to see four of his undercommanders astride their ponypigs, eyeing him curiously.
“The soldiers grow impatient,” remarked the undercommander who had spoken before, a slender cyclopian with long and curly silver hair and great muttonchops sideburns, both attributes highly unusual for the race. The brute was called Longsleeves for his penchant for wearing fine shirts, buttoned high on the neck, with sleeves that ran all the way to the top of his thin hands.
Belsen’Krieg looked back across the Felling Run, to the plumes of smoke. The inviting plumes of smoke; the cyclopian knew that Longsleeves spoke truthfully, that his soldiers were verily drooling at the sight.
“We have to move them,” another of the undercommanders put in.
“Across, or to the south?” Belsen’Krieg asked, more to himself than the others.
“To the south?” Longsleeves balked.
“We can go to the south, into the foothills, and approach Montfort from the western fields,” answered a lesser cyclopian, just an aide to one of the mounted undercommanders. Longsleeves moved to strike the impertinent brute, but his master held the slender cyclopian back, explaining that this brute among the group was the most familiar with this region, having spent many years in the Montfort city garrison.
“Continue,” Belsen’Krieg ordered the aide.
“Felling Run ain’t much up that way,” the brute went on, pointing to the south. “Just a few streams all runnin’ together. We could go right up and walk across them, and still have two miles a’goin’ before we got to Montfort.”
The aide’s excitement wasn’t shared by the undercommanders, who understood the importance of sacking this town, giving their tired soldiers some play and some food. Belsen’Krieg recognized that fact and sympathized with his undercommanders and their fears of desertion. The town was just across the river, half a mile away perhaps, across rolling, easy fields. Quick and easy plunder.
But still that nagging sensation remained with the general. Belsen’Krieg had seen many, many battles, and like all of the finest warriors, he possessed a sixth sense concerning danger. Something here simply didn’t smell right to him.
Before he could act upon those feelings, though, to explain them or simply to order the army to the south, his undercommanders hit him with every argument for crossing and sacking that they could find. They sensed the way their general was leaning and feared that they would lose this one easy battle before the pitched fight at Montfort’s walls.
Belsen’Krieg listened to them carefully. He feared that he might be getting paranoid, upset about ghosts. Much of Eriador apparently sided with the rebels in Montfort—the bandits attacking his camps and the wagons of tainted supplies proved that—but by all appearances, most of the country remained quiet, not loyal to Greensparrow, perhaps, but certainly cowed.
The undercommanders continued to argue; they wanted a taste of blood and maybe some food. Belsen’Krieg doubted that they would find much of either in the inconsequential town across the river, but he relented anyway. He marched with a force of nearly fifteen thousand Praetorian Guards, after all, and the easier ground to Montfort was indeed on the other side of the river.
“We cross here,” the general stated, and the faces of the four undercommanders brightened. “The town will be flattened,” he further offered to their wicked smiles. “But,” he said sternly, stealing the growing mirth, “we must be in sight of Montfort’s walls before the day ends!”
The undercommanders each looked to Belsen’Krieg’s aide, who bobbed his head ea
• • •
Not so far to the south, crouched behind hedgerows, crawling amidst tumbles of boulders, even in trenches dug along the back of a ridge, Luthien and his three hundred waited nervously. They had expected the cyclopians to swarm right across the bridge on the way to Felling Downs, but for some reason they did not understand, the army had paused.
“Damn,” Luthien muttered as the moments passed uneventfully. They had gambled on the cyclopians crossing; if the brutes turned south before the river, then Luthien and his raiders would have to flee back to Caer MacDonald with all speed. Even if they got away without much fighting, as Luthien believed they could, nothing would be gained, only lost, for the few hundred here could have been better served by remaining in the city, in helping with the continuing defensive preparations.
“Damn,” the young Bedwyr said again, and Siobahn, crouched beside him, had no words to comfort him this time. She, too, knew the gamble, and she sat quietly, chewing on her bottom lip.
Together they watched as several cyclopians ran ahead of the halted mass, running for the bridge. The brutes pulled up to a trot, then a walk as they neared the structure and began pointing out specific places to each other, making it quickly apparent that they had gone out to inspect the structure.
“Damn,” came the predictable lament among the raiders, and this time it was Siobahn, not Luthien, who spoke the words.
• • •
The bridge across Felling Run was not a large structure. It was made completely of wood and stood no more than fifteen feet above the ice-covered stream. It was wide and solid, and had stood with only minor repairs for longer than anyone could remember. Ten horses, or seven wide ponypigs, could cross it abreast, and its gently arching roadway was grooved by the countless merchant wagons that had crossed it, making their way from Port Charley to Montfort.
The five cyclopians sent to inspect the structure were not tentative in the least as they came upon the solid wood. The fall to the river was only fifteen feet, after all, and the river was obviously shallow and not very swift running. The brutes fanned out, two to a side and one in the middle, directing the inspection. They went down to their knees, gripping the edges and bending over to take a look at what was underneath.
The great oak beams appeared to be solid, unbreakable. Even the cyclopians, never known for feats of engineering or construction of any kind, could appreciate the strength of the bridge. The call of “yok-ho,” the cyclopian signal that all was well, came from one, then another, both on the right side of the bridge.
The brute peeking over the bridge’s left-hand side, nearest to the eastern bank, noticed something strange. The wood under here was weathered and gray, except for two pegs the cyclopian spotted: new pegs, with sawdust still clinging to their visible edge.
“Yok-ho!” called the first brute on the left, who then joined the curious cyclopian near the eastern bank, the only one who had not given the signal.
“Yok-ho?” he asked, bending low to see what had so sparked his companion’s interest.
The curious brute pointed out the new pegs.
“So?” his companion prompted. “It’s been a tough winter blow. The bridge needed fixing.”
The other cyclopian was not so certain. He had a nagging suspicion, and he wanted to crawl over the edge and snake in for a closer look. His companion wasn’t thrilled with that idea, though.
“Call out yok-ho,” the one-eye insisted.
“But the peg—”
“If you don’t call it out, we’ll be turning south,” the other growled.
“If it falls—” the curious cyclopian tried to explain, but again he was cut short.
“Then those on it will tumble down,” the other replied. “But those who get across, and we’ll be in the front of that group, will get to the town and get to the food. My stomach’s been growling all the day, and all of yesterday! So call it out, or I’ll put my fist into your eye!”
“What do you see?” demanded the cyclopian standing in the middle of the bridge.
The curious one took a last look at the pegs, then at the scowl of his companion. “Yok-ho!” he cried out, and the brute in the middle, as eager as any to get to the town, didn’t question the delay any further.
Word was relayed back to the waiting army, and they began to move immediately, tightening ranks so that they could get across the bridge as quickly as possible.
Under that bridge, tucked into cubbies between the great beams near to the center of the understructure, three dwarfs, who had heard the conversation at the lip of the bridge and now the thunder of marching footsteps and ponypig hooves on the planks above, breathed deep sighs of relief. Each dwarf carried a large mallet, ready to knock out designated pegs and drop the bridge when the signal came from the south.
Down to the south, Siobahn, Luthien, and all the others breathed relieved sighs, as well, as they watched the Avon army crossing over to the east. Luthien took out his folding bow and pinned it open; the others fitted long arrows to their bowstrings. Then they waited.
Half the force got across, including all of the cavalry, and still the raiders held their shots.
The lines of cyclopians stretched out across the way, nearing Felling Downs. The brutes would find the town deserted and all supplies gone, though the villagers had left more than a few traps, snares, and oil-soaked buildings, flint and steel attached to door jambs waiting for a cyclopian to walk in.
For the waiting marauders, the timing had to be perfect. They didn’t want to trap too many cyclopians on this side of the bridge, but it would take them a couple of minutes to get down there to engage the brutes and they didn’t want to wait so long as to allow all the cyclopians to run across. One elf was dug in less than two hundred feet from the bridge, in a deep hole beneath a lone tree. Her job was to count the remaining one-eyes and signal back, and so Luthien and the others waited for the flash of a mirror.
Most of the army was across, the trailing brutes growing more confident and less structured in their formations now. Siobahn nodded up and down the line and great bows bent back, anticipating the call.
The mirror flashed; the air hummed with the vibrations of bowstrings. The first volley went out to the bank just east of the bridge, a three-hundred arrow barrage to prevent any of the brutes who had already gone over from running back across before the bridge fell.
Confusion erupted from the cyclopians as the stinging, deadly darts whipped in. Howls and cries filtered up and down the ranks; to the south, a horn blew.
So much confusion hit those upon the bridge, scrambling brutes trying to decide which way to run, that the one-eyes never even heard the pounding as the dwarfs took up their mallets, slamming out the pegs.
The second barrage came flying from the south, this time plucking into the ranks of some three hundred brutes remaining on the western bank.
Commands rang out all along the cyclopian line, the army trying to turn about to meet the unexpected foe. Those cyclopians near the bridge scrambled to get into formation on both banks, lining up their great shields to deflect the next volley.
One group of cavalry, a dozen ponypig riders, including undercommander Longsleeves, came galloping onto the bridge from the west, trying to get back and take command of the force left behind.
Beams groaned and creaked; below came a tremendous cracking sound from the ice and splashes. The cavalry unit was more than halfway across, scattering cyclopian infantry, even knocking a few over the side.
The bridge collapsed beneath them.
Now all of the bowshots from the south were concentrated on those unfortunate cyclopians trapped on the west. Each barrage took less of a toll as more and more got into their tight defensive posture, great shields lined edge to edge.
With cries of “Free Eriador!” and “Caer MacDonald!” the raiders leaped up from their concealment, bows twanging as they charged. Within twe
That last volley decimated the cyclopian ranks, killed nearly a hundred of the brutes, and sent those remaining into a scramble of pure confusion.
Out came Blind-Striker, and Luthien Bedwyr, his crimson cape billowing in the morning breeze, led the charge.
Across the river, the cyclopian army hooted and cursed. Some threw their long spears, others fired crossbows, but cyclopians, having only one eye and no depth perception, were not adept at missile fire, and their barrage, however heavy, was ineffective.
Still, the enemy was in sight, and the cyclopians were hungry for blood. Many picked a careful course along the angled logs of the bridge which had not fallen, while others, on orders from their tyrant commander, swarmed down the banks, trying to cross on the ice.
Some got almost halfway before the ice broke apart, dropping them into the freezing waters.
On the western bank, the massacre was on in full. Outnumbered by more than two to one, the remaining cyclopians, Praetorian Guard all, put up a good fight initially. But as more died, and as it became apparent that little if any help would cross over from the eastern bank, groups of the brutes began to run off, back to the west, the way they had come, wishing they could run all the way to Carlisle in Avon!
They didn’t get nearly that far. Barely a hundred yards from the bridge, they found more enemies, those independent rebel bands that had peppered the force since it had left Port Charley.
The rebels from Caer MacDonald saw the unexpected help as well, and their hearts soared and the cyclopians’ heart for the battle fell apart. Above it all was Luthien, running from fight to fight, slashing with Blind-Striker and calling out for Eriador, inspiring his warriors.