Once more Luthien Bedwyr felt as if he had become a pawn in a game that was much too large for him to control. Once more he felt himself in the embrace of the puppeteer. Siobhan. Beautiful Siobhan. This time, though, Luthien did not resist that touch, the pulling of his strings. This time the presence of the half-elf, a tower of strength and determination, came as a welcome relief to him.
Without Siobhan beside him, behind him, Luthien believed that he would have broken that night, would have lost his purpose as he lost his hope. Without Siobhan, his guilt for those who would soon die, and who had already died, would have overwhelmed the prospects of the future, for with such a tremendous force marching toward the liberated city, the thought of a free Eriador seemed a fleeting, twinkling fantasy, as unreachable as the stars that flanked the tower of the Ministry.
Siobhan led him from the roof and back to the apartment in Tiny Alcove.
Katerin did not sleep well that night, too worried for her homeland, but she heard Oliver’s contented snores in the room next to hers, comfortable quarters at a small inn high up the levels of Port Charley. The next morning, though, the woman of Hale was not tired, too excited by the sight of the departing army as she and Oliver joined Brind’Amour near to the eastern road.
The main body of the Avon force was long out of sight, several miles from the town already, and now came the supporting troops, mostly driving wagons loaded with provisions. Gretel directed its departure, working side by side with one of the largest and ugliest cyclopians either Katerin or Oliver had ever seen.
“The very ugliest!” Oliver assured his companions. “And I have seen many cyclopians!”
“Not as many as I,” Brind’Amour interjected. “And Belsen’Krieg, for that is the brute’s name, is truly the most imposing.”
“Ugly,” Oliver corrected.
“In spirit as well as in appearance,” Brind’Amour added.
“He will ride out soon to join with his force.” Katerin’s tone was anxious.
“Belsen’Krieg will lead them, not follow,” Brind’Amour confirmed. The wizard motioned to a powerful ponypig, heavily armor plated, with sharpened spikes protruding from every conceivable angle. Just looking at the monstrous thing, both Oliver and Katerin knew that it was Belsen’Krieg’s. Only the most ugly cyclopian would choose such a gruesome and horrible mount.
“As soon as Belsen’Krieg and his soldiers are away, we can stop the wagons,” Katerin reasoned, her face brightening suddenly. That light dimmed, though, as she regarded the old wizard.
“The wagons will roll throughout the day,” Brind’Amour explained. “And a smaller group will depart tomorrow. But all the food that leaves with that second group will be tainted, and their drinking supply will be salted with water from the sea. That should give Belsen’Krieg enough good supplies to get him more than halfway to Montfort, fully committed to his march. Above all else, we must prevent him from turning back to Port Charley. Let them reach their goal, hungry and weary, and not ready for the fight, with Luthien before them and our army on their heels.”
Both Oliver and Katerin looked curiously at the wizard, reacting to that last remark.
“Yes,” Brind’Amour explained. “Port Charley will send a fair force after the cyclopians, and the one-eyes will be pecked every mile of their march, for every village between here and Montfort has joined in our cause.”
Katerin was no longer arguing with the wizard, though she wasn’t sure if he was stating fact or hope. Her instincts, her anger, continually prompted her to act, to strike out in any way she could find against the cyclopians and the foreign King Greensparrow. Already Brind’Amour had earned her trust. She realized that he, and not she, had brought Port Charley into the rebellion, before she and Oliver had even arrived. If the wizard’s claim was correct, he had also secured alliance with the other southern Eriadoran villages, and if the wizard was right about Port Charley, Eriador would soon possess a fleet of great warships that was probably nearly as large as Greensparrow’s remaining fleet in Avon.
Still, Katerin could not forget the army marching east, marching to Caer MacDonald and her beloved Luthien. Could Caer MacDonald hold?
She had to admit, to herself at least, that Brind’Amour was right as well in his argument about letting the cyclopians march upon that city. In the larger picture, if Eriador was indeed to be free, this force led by Belsen’Krieg—a mere token of what Greensparrow could ultimately hurl at them—might be among the least of their troubles.
That truth brought little comfort to Katerin O’Hale and sent a shudder along her spine.
Siobhan’s predictions were proven accurate the very next day, when villagers from the towns nearest Caer MacDonald began flocking into the city. Mostly, it was the young and the old who came in, in orderly fashion and all carrying provisions, ready to fight if necessary, to hold out against the wicked king of Avon to the last. And every group that came in spoke of their hardiest folk, who were moving to the west to meet with and hinder the approach of the cyclopian force.
Luthien didn’t have to ask to know that this was somehow Siobhan’s doing, that while he sat up on the roof, mulling over what seemed like an assured defeat, the half-elf and her stealthy cohorts were out and about, rousing the towns, telling them that the time for their independence had come.
The response from those towns was overwhelming. That day and the next, Luthien watched his garrison within the city grow from six thousand to ten thousand, and though many of the newer soldiers were elderly and could not match a powerful cyclopian in close combat, they had grown up on the Eriadoran plains hunting deer and elk, and they were skilled with their great yew bows.
So also were those younger warriors that went out in bands from the smaller villages, and Belsen’Krieg’s army found itself under assault barely two days and ten miles out from Port Charley.
The damage to the massive force was not excessive. Every once in a while a cyclopian went down, usually wounded, but sometimes killed, and flaming arrows whipped into the supply wagons, causing some excitement. More important, though, was the effect of the skirmishers on the army’s morale, for the cyclopians were being hindered and stung by an enemy that hit fast from concealment, then flittered away like a swarm of bees in a swift wind—an enemy they could not see and could not catch.
Belsen’Krieg kept them together and kept them marching straight for Montfort, promising them that once the city was overrun, they could slaughter a thousand humans for every dead cyclopian.
Oliver looked out at the heavy fog that came up that night, the third after the cyclopians had put into Port Charley, and he knew that this was no natural event. Since he had met up with Brind’Amour, the wizard had constantly complained about how weakened magic had become, but Oliver thought this enchantment wonderful, the perfect cover for this night’s business.
Seventy ships from Avon lay anchored out in the harbor, great warships, many with catapults or ballistae set on the poop deck. In studying those magnificent vessels that day, Oliver and Katerin had agreed that it was a good thing Brind’Amour had intervened in Port Charley. Had they followed their original plan and tried to keep the cyclopians out in the water, this picturesque and enchanting town would have been reduced to piles of rubble.
Katerin, Brind’Amour, and Gretel joined Oliver at the dock a short while later. Immediately, the young woman scowled at Oliver, and the halfling pretended that he did not understand.
Katerin grabbed the plumed hat off his head and ruffled his purple cape. “Could you not have dressed better for the occasion?” she grumbled.
Oliver pulled the hat back from her and put his free hand over his heart, as though she had just mortally wounded him. “But I am!” he wailed. “Do you not understand the value of impressing your enemy?”