The weather took a turn for the worse as Gaelin, Erin, Boeric, and Niesa rode out of Beldwyn. The temperature began to drop toward the freezing mark, while a stiff westerly wind brought low, angry clouds and stinging cold rain to slow their travel. Gaelin ignored the needles of icy water pelting his face and the chilling gusts that raked him. He stared sightlessly at the road, grappling with the sea of betrayal and grief that surrounded him.
A few miles west of Beldwyn, they overtook Piere and his kinsmen. The Sirilmeeters listened attentively as Erin recounted their visit to the count.
“You must remember, my lord Mhor, we view ourselves as Mhoriens first and Dhalsielans second,” Piere said, when she was done. “I think most common folk feel that way, these days. It’s a shame the lords can’t see it the same.”
Gaelin brooded silently. As far as he was concerned, the only reason to continue back to Sirilmeet was the fact that the road led in that direction. Toward nightfall, they found themselves approaching the village again. After hours of riding in the freezing rain, they were shivering and blue with cold. As Piere and his cousins took their leave of Gaelin, the stocky farmer looked him up and down and said, “My lord Mhor, can I ask where you’ll be staying this night?”
Gaelin shook himself out of his reverie. “What?”
“My lord, if you don’t have a place to go, you’re welcome to sleep under my roof. It’s a miserable night, and you shouldn’t have to spend it sleeping in the cold and the rain.”
“Master Piere, I’m a marked man. If you put me up, I could bring the Ghoerans down on your head.”
“It’s the least I can do, Mhor Gaelin. Come this way.” Piere led them to his home, a sturdy lodge of stone, turf, and timber.
It was warm and crowded inside, and Gaelin was instantly set upon by a horde of Piere’s grandchildren. One lad of only four or five asked him over and over, “Are you really a prince?” After a filling dinner of warm bread and stew by the fire, Gaelin felt better.
As the hour grew late and Piere’s youngsters dropped off one by one to sleep, Erin quietly drew Gaelin aside. “Where are we going next?” she asked.
He laughed humorlessly. “I have no idea. There doesn’t seem to be a point in going anywhere.”
She leaned forward, forcing him to look her in the eye.
“Don’t you think you’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for yourself?”
He glanced up, his face darkening.
“Go ahead, Gaelin. Deny it if you want, but you know and I know you’ve been looking for excuses ever since you set foot in Mhoried again.” Her eyes blazed. “You make a poor victim, Gaelin Mhoried. Stop playing the part.”
“That’s not fair,” he said, an edge in his voice. “You have no idea what I’ve been through in these past few days.”
Erin sighed and sat back, changing her tactics. “Listen. Do you have a plan, a place you want to go next?”
“Frankly, I don’t.”
“Well, why not? Are you looking for someone to tell you what to do, a place to go and drop your burdens? Do you think that all of this will just go away once you find the right person to pick up where your father left off?”
Gaelin stood up. “I don’t have to listen to this.” He stalked out into the black, cold night, slamming the door behind him.
The air seared his nose. He noticed the clouds had cleared, and the sky was full of bright, clear stars. He stood in Piere’s farmyard, too angry to do anything but shiver and fume helplessly. After a time, the door creaked, and he heard light footfalls behind him. “Are you ready to continue?” Erin asked.
“When I leave the room, it’s a good sign I consider the conversation at an end,” Gaelin replied.
“Gaelin, I understand you’re hurt. All I’m saying is that you have to take control of events, instead of letting events control you. You can’t blow around Mhoried like a dead leaf in the wind forever. Sooner or later, you need to decide what you’re doing.”
“Those are easy things to say, Erin.” He turned to face her, a twisted smile on his face. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Do you want to fight Tuorel or give up?”
Gaelin chewed on his tongue, biting back his response.
After a moment, he said slowly, “I want to fight Tuorel. For my family, for the kingdom, for me – I want to fight him. I want to see he doesn’t get away with this.”
Erin sighed. “Well, that’s the first step of the march.
Clearly, you need to find some help, and quickly. What are your best options?”
Gaelin thought. “We’re not too far from the Abbey of the Red Oak. High Prefect Iviena has always been an ally of my father’s, and the priests of Haelyn have money, lands, and a small army under their command.”
“The Oak recognizes the Mhoried blood, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not truly the Mhor until I stand before the Oak and swear the oaths of allegiance.”
“We’ll want to visit the abbey soon, then. What next?”
“Torien’s Watch. Lord Torien is loyal, and I know him personally – I wintered under his roof this year, finishing my training in the Knights Guardian. I could at least find refuge there for a time.”
“And what then?”
“I don’t know. Try to build up an army to drive Tuorel out, I suppose. Although Torien is not the best place for that. It’s awful remote, and raising an army that far north would be hard. ”
Erin wrapped her arms around her body, warding off the cold. “Any other options?”
“I could leave Mhoried and try to raise help from Diemed or Alamie.”
“You’d be a puppet, or an unwelcome guest. It would be difficult to win support if you had none at home.”
“That occurred to me.” Gaelin glanced to the west. “My last option is trying to locate Baesil Ceried and the rest of Mhoried’s army. We know some of his forces escaped Cwlldon.
And my father was always certain of his loyalty.” Gaelin considered the plan, thinking it through. “If we make for Castle Ceried, we’ll pass right by the abbey. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll ride for the abbey first thing tomorrow, and then continue on to Ceried.”
“Good,” Erin said. Gaelin could just barely make her out in the darkness now, a slender silhouette with her thin cloak snapping and fluttering behind her in the bitter wind. “At least you know what you’re trying to do for the moment.”
“You didn’t really care what I decided, as long as I decided something,” Gaelin said. Erin didn’t reply, but he thought he saw a shy smile on her face.
Next morning they rose and saddled the horses in the gray, icy hour before sunrise. As the sun touched the horizon, Gaelin took his leave of Piere. “My thanks, Master Piere.
That’s twice in two nights I’ve enjoyed your hospitality.”
“The house is yours any time you wish, my lord Mhor. Or the barn, if you prefer.” Piere sent them off with the broadshouldered giant they had seen the previous day, to guide them to the abbey. He called himself Bull, and like almost everyone they had met in Sirilmeet, he was Piere’s kinsman – in this case, the husband of Piere’s youngest sister.
Bull proved a capable guide. He led them away from Sirilmeet by old trails in the woods, staying away from the main roads. “No sense looking for trouble,” he said. “Ghoere’s horsemen are sweeping every road from here to Cwlldon, my lord.” They rode for several miles as the sun climbed into the sky. The air was still and clear, the winds of the previous night fading quickly. Sirilmeet was close to the old forests of Bevaldruor, and they skirted the northern eaves of the wood as they headed westward.
Early in the afternoon, they came to a muddy road cutting through the woods. Gaelin recognized it as the Northrun. To avoid Ghoeran patrols, Bull led them to a cart track running between the freesteads and sheep farms. They could see the old highway from time to time, just over a low ridge or knoll, but for the most part they were well out of sight.
After an hour or so, they found the fields taking on the neat, ordered appearance of carefully tended land, plowed and planted with grain just starting to break ground. The track led through a bare apple orchard, winding under the shining white branches, and then ended in a small square of green before a long, low wall of stone. The roofs and domes of the temple glinted in the sunlight, rising up behind the sturdy outer walls.
Bull dismounted and ambled over to a door in the wall. He thumped one meaty fist on the wood. “Hey! Wake up in there! ”
There was a brief delay, and then with a clatter a viewport in the door was drawn back. Gaelin could see the cold steel glint of a crossbow’s arms in the shadows of the doorway.
From the door a voice called, “Go around the front, louts!”
Bull hammered on the door again, doubtless ringing the ears of the fellow standing behind it. “I’m Bull from Sirilmeet, and this is the Mhor Gaelin! Now, open up! Ghoere’s men are all around us!”
“The Mhor Gaelin?”
Gaelin stepped forward, leading Blackbrand. “Prince Gaelin until I stand before the Red Oak,” he said. “I mean to speak with the high prefect as soon as possible.”
After a moment, the door rattled with the working of bolts and locks and opened slowly. A round-faced monk in the militant garb of the Knights Templar appeared and leaned a large crossbow against the door. “I expect the lady’ll want to talk to you, too. Come inside, and quickly – Ghoerans have been about all day, asking after you.”
Leading their horses, they followed the monk into the abbey. The monastery was really a small castle. The walls were capped with stone-faced battlements, and the courtyard presented the appearance of a parade ground. Across the bailey, Haelynite priests in plain brown cassocks practiced with staves and padded cudgels. The door warden bolted and locked the door behind them and then led them into a stable along the inside of the low wall. He ordered a pair of young aspirants to look after the horses and then led Gaelin and his companions to the abbey’s hospice.
Like many monasteries, the Abbey of the Red Oak offered travelers shelter for the night and a hot meal. To his surprise, Gaelin noticed it was empty. He would have thought refugees would be clogging every available sanctuary.
“Where is everyone?” he wondered aloud.
The door warden shrugged. “With the war, most of the travelers and tradesmen have remained in one place,” he said. “After all, who wants to be dragged into one army or the other, or have his goods confiscated? Few roads in Mhoried have been safe for travel for more than a week now.”
“Haven’t any refugees come this way?”
The door warden shook his head. “We’ve been turning them away, on the lady’s orders.” He showed them into a barren dining hall, a long, low room with a roaring fire in the hearth at the far end. “Please have something to eat. I’ll be back soon.”
He ambled off at a dignified pace. Several brothers manned the refectory, and they scraped together a warm haunch of meat and some dry bread for Gaelin and his friends, along with leather jacks of potent ale to wash it all down.
“I’m surprised the prefect wouldn’t open the doors to those in need,” Erin said when they were left to themselves.
“Can’t say I like it,” Bull agreed. “The folk around here have always looked to Haelyn’s priests for protection.”
Gaelin frowned. “We’ll see what Iviena has to say,” he replied. He, too, found it disconcerting.
A few minutes later, the round-faced monk returned, accompanied by a tall, bony man in elegant robes. His pate was shaved, but he wore a jeweled cap of office. With a slight bow, he said, “My apologies for your informal welcome, Prince Gaelin, but I’m sure you appreciate the circumstances. I am Brother Superior Huire, and you already have met Brother Maegus. The high prefect can see you now, my lord.”
Gaelin rose and stepped away from the table. “Erin, will you please join me?”
“Of course, my lord.” Staying a half-pace behind him, Erin followed Gaelin through the twisted, dark halls, limping slightly from her injury. Without Brother Huire to lead the way, they would have become lost in the abbey’s labyrinthine halls. The place was nearly the size of Shieldhaven, but it lacked the castle’s great halls and straight corridors. They passed many militant monks, wearing Haelyn’s robes over their armor.
Brother Superior Huire led them to a reception room, near the main chapel. It was a splendid chamber, richly appointed with tapestries and arras of gold and white. The High Prefect Iviena waited by a table of gleaming maple, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a white robe, her gray hair concealed by a plain habit. Her face was lined with care, but her eyes still sparkled with keen intelligence. “Thank you, Brother Superior, ” she said to Huire. “Prince Gaelin, welcome.”
Gaelin crossed the room and knelt beside the table, kissing her off e red hand. “Lady High Prefect,” he said, “Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t pretend the past few days have gone well for my family.” He stood and gestured to Erin. “This is the minstrel Erin Graysong, master bard of the White Hall.”
Erin stepped forward, knelt, and repeated Gaelin’s greeting.
“Please rise, child,” Iviena said. She looked up at Gaelin.
“What has become of Tiery, then?”
“Baron Tuorel hanged him three days ago,” Gaelin said.
“He was trying to help my father to escape Shieldhaven.”
Iviena’s face fell. “And the Mhor perished as well.”
“You have heard of Shieldhaven’s fall, then?”
“We’ve known for nearly a week now. Haelyn revealed to me the circumstances of your father’s death, Prince Gaelin.”
Her voice softened. “You have my sincerest condolences. The Mhor Daeric was a good man and a fine Mhor. He rests now in Haelyn’s glory, I am certain.” She fell silent for a moment and bowed her head in prayer before lifting her eyes to meet Gaelin’s. “And what happened to you, Prince Gaelin? How did you learn of your father’s death?”
“Lady Iviena, I saw the spirit of my father on the banks of the Stonebyrn four nights ago, as I returned to Mhoried from Endier. He told me Bannier had betrayed House Mhoried.” He found his voice growing thick, but continued. “He also said that Thendiere and Liesele were also dead at Tuorel’s hands.”
“And after that?”
“I… I felt the power of the land, my lady. The divine right passed to me, then and there. I felt my blood singing. I don’t know how else to explain it.” Gaelin gave up with a shrug.
“We rode to Shieldhaven to see what had gone wrong, but Tuorel nearly trapped us there. I made for Dhalsiel to seek Cuille’s aid, but… he was unwilling to help.”
Iviena measured Gaelin’s features, her eyes sharp as swords. Gaelin met her gaze without looking away. “So, as the surviving son of Mhor Daeric, you are a claimant to the throne,” she finally said. “Did you come here to swear the oaths before the Red Oak?”
“I did, High Prefect, although that was not the only reason.
I also hoped to convince you to stand with me against Ghoere.
I will need your aid to drive Tuorel out of my father’s castle, and Haelyn’s temple has always been a staunch ally of Mhoried.”
Iviena sighed, and stood up. She paced away from them, her hands behind her back. “I am not certain you understand what you are asking of me,” she said quietly. “As far as I can tell, House Mhoried is already defeated. If I support you against Ghoere, I place the faith itself in jeopardy. Tuorel is not a man to forgive those who stand against him.” She turned and faced him. “I am sorry, Prince Gaelin, but I will not take the field against Tuorel.”
Gaelin was stunned. “You just acknowledged my claim, not a moment ago! Tuorel is a usurper, a murderer! You can’t allow him to take this land as his own!”
“I acknowledge that you have a claim to the Mhoried, Gaelin.
B a ron Tuorel is no friend of mine. But I have a responsibility to the temple, an entity that exists above and beyond the duchy. We may be your subjects, but we must accept the fact that with the fall of House Mhoried we could become subjects of Ghoere, whether or not we find that a pleasant development.”
Gaelin rose from his seat. “What of Haelyn’s tenets? You owe fealty to the lawful lord of Bevaldruor. If you acknowledge that I am the Mhor, then aid me!”
The dignified priestess flushed, but kept her own temper in check. “You are not yet the Mhor, Prince Gaelin. You may recall you are only a claimant to the throne until you speak the oaths before the Red Oak. As the leader of Haelyn’s temple in Mhoried, I will decide if and when you may do so.” She regarded him with an even gaze. “I will offer you shelter and help you if I can, Prince Gaelin. However, I will not risk the destruction of Haelyn’s faith by setting it in opposition to Baron Tuorel.”
Gaelin drew in a breath to continue, but Erin caught his arm with her hand. “Excuse me, your Grace,” she said, “But will you administer the oaths to Gaelin?”
Iviena frowned. “I have here a letter from Baron Noered Tuorel. He refers to the tragic circumstances of the Mhor’s death and also claims that through a marriage made two hundred years ago he is a legal claimant to the throne of Bevaldruor.”
She picked up a parchment from her writing desk and tapped it against her palm. “While it is customary for the Mhor’s eldest son to be recognized as the foremost claimant, it is not necessarily the law. In fact, there are dozens of nobles throughout Anuire who can lay claim to Mhoried’s throne, just as Gaelin here could lay claim to the throne of Diemed or Alamie through old marriages.”
“In other words,” Erin said, “anyone who can prove a blood tie to House Mhoried can claim the throne, but the person with the best claim normally becomes the Mhor.”
“Precisely,” Iviena agreed. “My scholars have already investigated the genealogical records. Tuorel’s claim is legitimate, if somewhat tenuous.”
“Clearly, Gaelin’s claim is superior to Tuorel’s.”
“It would be, if he chose to claim the throne.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Gaelin asked.
“Gaelin, once you swear the oaths Tuorel will have no choice but to hunt you down. Mhoried can have no other legal ruler while you live. If you do not press your claim, you are not truly the Mhor, and you could flee. There are many courts where you could live in safety.” Iviena’s face softened.
“I have no wish to see the last of the Mhorieds dead. Do not force Tuorel’s hand, I beg you.”
“What happens if two people claim the throne?” asked Erin.
“By law, all candidates stand before the Red Oak to see which claimant the Red Oak recognizes. I must tell you that there has been no contested succession in many centuries. For hundreds of years, each Mhor has stood alone before the Oak.”
“Does the law require both candidates to take the test of the Oak at the same time?” Erin asked quickly.
“I do not believe so,” Iviena said, watching the bard.
“I see your point, Erin,” Gaelin said. “I could attempt the Red Oak this very moment, while the high prefect could say she was merely observing the ancient laws for resolving rival claims. Tuorel couldn’t argue against her ruling, since it’s perfectly legal.” He smiled and turned back to the priestess.
“Very well, then. I claim the throne of Mhoried and request the test of the Oak as soon as possible, your Grace.”
Iviena held up a hand. “It will anger Tuorel, but if Prince Gaelin has already received the land’s blessing, the Red Oak is sure to recognize him.” She looked at Gaelin. “I may not be able to give you swords and gold, but that does not mean I will not look for other ways to oppose Tuorel’s taking of this land. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Think before you answer.”
Gaelin glanced down at his hands again, scratching unconsciously at the ache in the center of his injured hand. He had no doubt the priests of Haelyn could find a way to spirit him out of the country if he did not claim his father’s throne.
He also realized Iviena was risking the destruction of her order by defying Tuorel. She was doing as much to help him as he could reasonably expect, so he did as she asked and carefully considered the question of whether or not to press his claim. He tried to imagine leaving Mhoried to live in exile, but his heart told him that was the easy way out. It felt like giving up, and Gaelin knew he would be dishonoring his family and his country by abandoning Mhoried to Tuorel. “I am certain,” he said. “I don’t know how I can defeat Ghoere, but I refuse to let him seize the throne while I live.”
“Then we shall perform the ceremony at sunrise,” Iviena replied. “You may remain here as long as you like, but I cannot guarantee your safety. The temple’s sanctuary is worth only whatever Tuorel decides it is worth.”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Gaelin said. “In the meantime, I would like to borrow the services of your messengers or carrier pigeons; I’ve some letters to draft. And could one of your brothers tend Erin’s wound?”
“Of course,” Iviena said. A sad smile creased her face, and she sat down again. “Gaelin, you know I bear you no ill will.
I have found the Mhors to be honest and honorable rulers. I hope you understand that I cannot help you if I provoke Tuorel’s wrath and bring about the ruin of my temple.”
“It’s not the answer I hoped for, but I understand it,” Gaelin said. He knelt and kissed her hand again. “I suspect that Tuorel may force you to take sides sooner or later, anyway. ”
“I will deal with that when it happens,” she replied. With a nod to the brother superior, she dismissed them. Huire held the door open for Gaelin and Erin, and drew it shut behind them. The grave monk paused just outside the high prefect’s chambers, and faced Gaelin.
“Be patient, Prince Gaelin,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“The high prefect charts a cautious course, but many of us feel that we owe the Mhor any help he asks of us. In time, we may be able to change the high prefect’s mind.” With a slight bow, he turned and led them back to the visitors’ rooms.
Argent moonlight and cool shadow surrounded Gaelin. He was standing in a courtyard in the heart of the abbey, the most sacred spot in all of Mhoried. He remembered being here before – on one or two special occasions, his father had brought him to this place. It was silent and still, with a gleaming silver dew beginning to form on the grassy lawn. He turned and looked on the Red Oak, spreading its mighty branches from the center of the yard. It stood more than one hundred feet in height, and its bark gleamed white in the moonlight.
He was aware he was dreaming again. Everything had a strange, ephemeral quality, a sense of unreality about it.
Gaelin could see through his own body as if looking through a silk screen. The abbey walls shimmered and danced as if to indicate they, too, were not permanent. But the Red Oak glowed with strength and endurance. Everything Gaelin could see would pass in time, but the tree would remain.
He felt a presence near him. Beside him, a silver shadow materialized into the form of his father. Daeric stood still for a long time, gazing upon the tree. “Do you know why it is named the Red Oak, Gaelin?”
“No. I thought no one knew.”
His father smiled. “I do, now. Hundreds of years before Deismaar, this land was settled by our ancestors, the Mhora.
It was a wild and fair land, and the forests around Bevaldruor covered all of it, from the Stonebyrn to the Maesil. Elves lived here, and goblins in the north, but the Mhora drove out the goblins, and this became their land. This tree was old even then, and each Mhor came here to swear his oath of loyalty before Reynir and Anduiras, the ancient gods.
“After Deismaar, Prince Raedan returned to speak his oaths beneath the tree. Raedan had been close by Roele and Haelyn when they battled Azrai’s champions, and like many who survived that dreadful battle, Raedan had been infused with the remnants of the divine power. When his blood fell on the roots of this ancient oak and he spoke his oath, something miraculous happened. The Mhor and Mhoried became linked, joined by a drop of blood that carried the power of the gods themselves.” Daeric paused, his eyes fixed on events far beyond Gaelin’s knowledge. “This is the blood that runs in your veins, Gaelin.”
Gaelin discovered the abbey itself had almost faded away.
The open fields and hillsides gleamed as far as he could see.
Two shining silver rivers traced the borders of the land, each a hundred miles away, and to the north, dark, forbidding mountains raised fierce stone battlements over the forested foothills. “I will take the oaths tomorrow,” he said.
“I know,” Daeric said. “And now you know why the Mhors come here to speak the oaths of service.” With a smile, he began to fade away, his form becoming translucent. “Rule well, Mhor Gaelin,” he said, and then he was gone.
Gaelin’s eyes snapped open, and he stared up into the darkness of his chamber. The last slivers of moonlight were stretching across the floor of the room. He quietly rose and moved over to peer out the window, into the night. His window looked over a rooftop and down into the Court of the Oak, and he gazed at the tree, his thoughts still and deep, before returning to bed.
He woke in the cold darkness before dawn and dressed himself. After a cold breakfast in the hostel’s refectory, he went to the inner courtyard, where Iviena waited, attended by a pair of lesser priests. He found his own entourage in attendance – Erin, Bull, Boeric, and Niesa stood back respectfully, witnessing the event.
The ceremony was swift. Iviena led him through the oaths, first in Old Andu, then again in the modern dialect. As he spoke the words, Gaelin found that a strange, otherworldly vision came over him. He vividly imagined the ancient scene of Mhor Raedan touching the Oak with his bloodied hand, and the Oak stirring with the land’s acknowledgement of the Mhoried blood. At the end of the invocation, Iviena offered Gaelin a dagger, holding it across her palm. He took the weapon and cut his hand. Stepping forward to touch his bloodied hand to the smooth old bark, he spoke the words of his oath as the first rays of the sun set the Oak’s leaves to a brilliant, burning scarlet. With that, the oath was finished, and Gaelin was Mhor.
An hour after sunrise, the companions were on their way again, riding west from the abbey toward the Ceried estate.
The entourage surrounding Gaelin was growing. On Iviena’s insistence, the dour Brother Superior Huire had joined his party – ostensibly to provide spiritual guidance in Gaelin’s hour of need and maintain a representative of the Temple of Haelyn in the Mhor’s court. Gaelin guessed Huire was assigned to report his plans and situation to the high prefect at the earliest opportunity, but he accepted the gaunt monk into his confidence. Four Haelynite soldiers templar accompanied the priest.
Count Baesil’s castle and lands were located in the western reaches of the province of Byrnnor, and no major roads crossed this region. They traveled from village to village along muddy cart tracks and overgrown paths. Most people here were still in their homes and continued their daily work, watching over rolling fields of grain and corn or tending sheep on green hillsides.
The fine weather faded through the day as a leaden overcast darkened the sky, threatening rain. The wind turned to the north and cooled noticeably, and by the time they halted to water the horses and eat a scanty lunch from their packs, Gaelin’s face was red with windburn. While they ate, he motioned for Erin to join him on a lichen-frosted boulder, a short distance from the others. “I saw my father again last night,” he said quietly.
Erin bit into a small green apple and gave him a thoughtful look. “Go on,” she said.
“We were standing in the Court of the Oak. He showed me how the Oak was named, hundreds of years ago.” He paused, then turned to the bard. “Am I losing my mind? Or is my father’s spirit still watching over me?”
“The Mhor Daeric perished with Mhoried in great danger,” Erin said. “Perhaps he watches over you, hoping to see you restored to your rightful place, and the enemies of the land defeated.” She shrugged, and took another bite of her apple.
“And even if you’re imagining these meetings, what does it matter? You are as sane as I am, or just about anyone I know, for that matter. At worst this is your own way of saying goodbye to your father.”
They sat a while in a companionable silence. They had stopped by an abandoned farmhouse, its roof long since gone. The fields were strewn with boulders and the remnants of an old stone wall. Gaelin stood, stretched, and brushed off his breeches.
Erin started to stand as well, but she suddenly stopped and cocked her head. Then she scrambled for her horse. “Riders coming!” she cried. There was a moment of blank confusion, as some of the Haelynites looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Gaelin dropped his food and ran for Blackbrand. In one smooth motion, he pulled himself into the saddle.
At the top of the hill, Boeric was standing watch. He leaped to his feet and zigzagged down the grassy slope. “Ghoerans, just behind us, and coming fast!” he yelled.
“How many?” Gaelin called.
“Too many to fight, that’s for sure,” Boeric replied. He hauled himself into his saddle and seized the reins. His placid expression was gone, replaced by a bright-eyed alertness.
Gaelin glanced around. Most of the party was mounted again. “We’ll try to outrun them!” he said. “After me!” He kicked his heels into Blackbrand’s flanks and let the stallion have his head. Mud and turf flying from his hooves, the horse b roke into a strong gallop down the rutted cart track. In ones and twos, the others followed, spurring their own steeds after him. In a matter of moments, they were strung out over a couple of hundred yards of countryside, each rider coaxing the best speed he could from his animal. Blackbrand outpaced the others, and Gaelin stood in his stirrups to look over his shoulder.
Black-clad cavalrymen swept through the old homestead, in hot pursuit. The trailing riders, a pair of Huire’s guardsmen, were only a hundred yards or so ahead of the Ghoerans, but they seemed to be holding their lead. Some of the Ghoerans were firing after the Haelynites, but their bolts flew wide of the mark.
Gaelin turned back to mind his own path. If the Ghoerans had been riding hard all morning to catch up to them, they might not be able to sustain this pace for long, especially since Gaelin and his band had just rested their horses. “Keep up the pace!” he called. “We’ll wear them down!”
Blackbrand’s hooves thundered beneath him. The track wound over several shallow hills, then plunged into a dense thicket, the trees pressing close in a dark tunnel. Gaelin risked another backward glance. Some of the Ghoerans were falling out of the race, but a few still clung doggedly to their trail, whipping their horses like madmen.
They burst from the copse into an open field, horses foaming at the mouth. The lead Ghoerans finally began to fall back. One persistent fellow stayed with them for another mile, but eventually he too dropped out, shaking his fist as his horse pulled up limping. Gaelin slowed his own pace and settled into an easy canter for another couple of miles, the rest of the Mhoriens following suit. Finally they turned off the road, finding another track leading in the general direction in which they wanted to travel.
“Think they’re still with us?” Erin asked. Clods of mud were stuck in her hair, and she grimaced as she pulled one from her tresses and dropped it to the ground.
“They won’t give up so easily, now that they’ve caught our trail,” Gaelin said. “We’d better keep moving quickly. That band may not catch us, but they’ll report to their superiors.”
The horses were exhausted from the long run, and Gaelin decided to dismount and lead them for a bit. They should have let the animals rest, but he didn’t think it would be wise.
He patted Blackbrand’s neck and promised himself he’d find an extra apple for the big stallion that night. Baesil Ceried’s army was still somewhere ahead, but he noticed everyone was looking over their shoulders as they marched on in the gray drizzle.