In a dark chamber of hollowed stone, Bannier awoke from a nightmare of pain and confusion. He was alone, lying on a cold floor, stripped of power and defenses. It had taken every reserve of his strength to survive his encounter with Gaelin – in fact, it had taken more strength than he possessed. That could only mean one thing: his patron had intervened to spare his life, for some purpose Bannier did not understand and feared to face.
Opening his eyes, Bannier examined his surroundings, like a drowning man who notices the quality and color of the water that ends his life. The chamber was vast, illuminated only by a pair of dim tapers set at his head and feet, and the feeble light was not strong enough to illuminate the walls or ceiling of the place. Abreath of musty air, old and dry, swirled around Bannier’s tattered robes.
He recognized this place. It was the heart of his master’s power, a place of bargains and ancient compacts, redolent with the odor of dust and betrayal. Bannier fought to control his terror. He rose, contemplating flight, but his reason won out over his fear. He’d been brought to this place for a specific purpose, as a deliberate act, and it would show a lack of character if he attempted to escape now. Escape was, after all, impossible at this point. He waited.
Hours passed in the darkness before he heard the sounds he knew would come. An iron door creaked open, admitting a gust of dank air, and then a footfall echoed through the room. It was a heavy sound, the scraping of stone on stone.
The footsteps were just a heartbeat too far apart to be human; their ringing impact suggested the approach of unstoppable power. Bannier quailed, but held his ground.
“Bannier, I am disappointed in you.” The voice was close to human pitch, although deeper and stronger than normal, and possessed of a certain coldness. “You performed admirably in the beginning, but you failed to bring the Mhoried blood to me and failed to bring Mhoried to ruin. Imagine my displeasure.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bannier dared no other response. He felt a vast presence in the shadows, a hulking power that now edged closer to the light. In the darkness before him, he saw two baleful red eyes appear, half again his own height above the floor. He flinched, averting his gaze.
There was a snort of derisive laughter. “You do not care to look upon my countenance? Do you not trust me, Bannier? I trusted you. I went to great lengths to retrieve you from your precarious position and bring you here to my Battlewaite.”
Raesene – the creature men knew as the Gorgon – stepped into the candlelight. He was massive, with a deep chest and long, powerful arms. His legs were doubled back like a satyr’s, and his feet were obsidian hooves; his flesh was a dusky gray that had the quality and feel of stone. The Gorgon’s face was awful, a bestial visage crowned by sharp spikes or horns, but buried beneath the hideous features there could still be seen the outlines of the face of a man. He wore fine black breeches, and a matching tunic embroidered with gold designs. The garments were regal, befitting a lord, but they left the wide expanse of his chest and the rippling power of his arms bared, a veneer of civilization covering an ele- mental force of destruction.
Resisting the urge to throw himself to the ground and grovel for mercy, Bannier held his ground. Five hundred years ago, the Gorgon had finally brought down the empire by destroying Michael Roele, the last of the line. But his ambitions did not end there. With Anuire reeling in chaos and civil war, the Gorgon’s domain grew in strength. Bannier suspected that the awnshegh lord desired nothing less than the complete subjugation of the scattered Anuirean successorstates;
Mhoried was the nearest of these to his reach.
In a rumbling voice, the Gorgon asked, “Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Bannier licked his lips. “My lord, while it is true that I failed to bring you the Mhoried bloodline, I aided Tuorel of Ghoere in defeating the Mhor Daeric and driving Gaelin’s forces to the remotest reaches of the kingdom. Even as I left to defend Caer Duirga, Tuorel’s army was finishing the Mhorien resistance.”
“The siege pro g resses well, as you say. But due to your incompetence, I am now forced to take matters into my own hands. This makes me wonder what I have received in exchange for the formidable powers I placed at your command.”
With an iron effort, Bannier met Raesene’s eyes. The Gorgon respected strength and courage. No matter what, the wizard must give him the impression he possessed both qualities.
“Allow me to return to Mhoried, my lord. I am certain I can bring down Gaelin, given another chance.”
Raesene stepped forward and laid his hand on Bannier’s shoulder, a familiar and patronizing gesture. The weight of his touch was more than Bannier could bear; the wizard was acutely conscious that with the merest act of will, the Gorgon could snuff out his life. “I knew you would say that,” the creature said. “Therefore, I have taken the liberty of making some arrangements for you. We will have this Mhorien situation resolved in our favor. Now, come with me.”
Trailing a step behind Raesene, Bannier followed obediently.
He allowed the barest degree of optimism to creep into his thoughts.
The Gorgon led him through the black halls of the Battlewaite, moving with relentless purpose, never speaking a word.
For his own part, Bannier dared not open his mouth. Eventually they came to a wide battlement, a terrace in the side of the tower that overlooked the fortress-city of Kal-Saitharak. Here the Gorgon stopped, dismissing a pair of trollish guards fro m the chamber. He gazed out over the towers and ramparts, the smoking forges and warrens of the city. “Bannier, do you wonder why I wish to see Mhoried destroyed? ”
“I only presumed it pleased you, my lord.”
The Gorgon smiled, a fierce expression. “Do not let my aspect deceive you, Bannier. I do very few things only because they gratify me. I bear Mhoried no particular malice, at least no more than any other Anuirean state. Mhoried is to be destroyed because it is one of a handful of linchpins, critical powers that hold Anuire together. And even more importantly than that, Mhoried is to be destroyed because it is necessary for Ghoere’s elevation.”
“All of this is for Tuorel’s gain? I did not realize that he was in your favor, Prince Raesene.”
“On the contrary, Bannier, I elevate Ghoere not for Tuorel’s sake, but for my own. I will build him into a great power, a warlord so strong he will dare to claim the Iron Throne. This will lead to an inevitable conflict between Ghoere and his supporters on the one hand, and those who can resist him on the other. In a year or two, all of Anuire will be immersed in the greatest war since Michael set out to claim his throne. This will be to my advantage.”
Bannier cleared his throat. “Why tell me this, my lord?”
The Gorgon turned his attention to the human sorc e rer beside him. “Because the necessary first step of this plan, a step I relied on you to complete, remains to be taken. Tuorel has not yet finished his conquest of Mhoried. Had you pursued your duties with more diligence, this affair would be concluded, and I would be free to turn my attentions elsewhere. Now a Dieman host marches to Mhoried’s relief, and Tuorel is about to be caught between Gaelin’s rebels and Vandiel’s soldiers.”
“Diemed joins the war?”
“ F rom what I understand, your treatment of Princess Seriene had something to do with it,” the Gorgon said wryly. “When you struck at her and Gaelin in the form of his Vos friend, she decided you had to be stopped. Now I find I must commit Kraith of Markazor to Mhoried again to reinforce Tuorel.”
“I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to involve Diemed through my attempts to capture Gaelin for you.” Bannier could not restrain a shudder of fear – the Gorgon accepted few apologies.
The Gorgon’s smile chilled Bannier. “Fortunately, Kraith is available to counter the Dieman army. It is not a fatal mistake, Bannier. Now, you must be wondering what role you have left to play. You will become my envoy in Tuorel’s court. It is my desire that Tuorel and Kraith combine their forces in order to crush the remaining Mhoriens and Vandiel Diem’s host.
Kraith marches even as we speak, but Tuorel must be persuaded to accept the goblin’s aid.”
“Tuorel will be suspicious of me,” Bannier said.
“Then you will have to employ a ruse of some kind.” Raesene let his baleful gaze rest on Bannier for a long moment, until the wizard quailed and looked down. “You are also to see to it that Tuorel has the chance to meet Gaelin Mhoried face to face, on the field of battle. Allow the Wolf of Ghoere to slay the young Mhor and claim his bloodline and kingdom.
In a year or two, when the time is right, I shall call upon Tuorel and absorb both the Mhoried and Tuorel bloodlines.
Do you understand?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Then you may go.”
Bannier bowed again and set off at once. He’d visited the Battlewaite on several occasions; he’d find his own way out.
He had reached the doorway leading from the battlements when he heard Raesene’s hooves scrape heavily on the stone behind him. “One more thing, Bannier. I expended a great amount of energy and effort to rescue you from the mistakes you made at Caer Duirga. I shall not do so again.”
“I understand, my lord,” Bannier replied. Backing away, he disappeared into the darkness of the Gorgon’s citadel. It would take much of his remaining strength to walk the Shadow again, but he dared not linger one moment more in the Gorgon’s halls.
Seriene located the portal again after a brief search. Although she was staggering with exhaustion, she managed to reopen the doorway and send Gaelin and his decimated en- tourage through. They found themselves high on the slopes of Caer Duirga, an hour or so after sunset. The stars were emerging in a field of midnight blue overhead. Gaelin was relieved to count the normal number of lights in the sky; the warm, friendly constellations he knew were still here.
Gaelin was immediately aware of a change in the feel of Caer Duirga. The brooding menace and supernatural chill were gone, replaced by the sense of watchfulness common to any wild place. This was not a place for people to linger near, but the hostility had faded, leaving nothing but a memory.
The ancient evil beneath the hill slept once more.
Three hours after sundown, they stumbled back into the camp they’d left at the foot of the hill. The two guards were still there, nervous and alert. They greeted Gaelin and their fellows with obvious relief. “We wondered if you were ever coming back,” one said.
“We were only gone for a day,” Boeric observed sourly.
“We left at dawn and returned at sunset.”
“Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but you’ve been gone for three full days,” the guard told them. “You left the camp the morning of the day before yesterday.”
Gaelin exchanged a long look with Seriene. The princess merely frowned and shook her head. As she had told them, time ran differently in the Shadow World. Although Gaelin regretted the lost days, he decided not to make any effort to begin their return trek. They were all exhausted, physically and spiritually. He allowed Boeric to build a bright and cheerful campfire that night. Enemies or no enemies, no one wanted to lay awake for a night in a cold and empty place without light and heat.
Ilwyn rallied once they left the Shadow, but she was still semiconscious, as if black and hidden ice in her heart had only now begun to thaw. She couldn’t manage anything more than monosyllables and was too frail to stand or walk unaided.
But through the night she made progress, gripping a steaming mug of coffee and staring into the fire with wide, dark eyes. Erin looked after the Mhorien princess, staying close beside her and comforting her.
That night, Gaelin slept alone. Erin stayed beside Ilwyn, holding her through the night as if the princess were a lost and damaged child. Even if Erin hadn’t been looking after Ilwyn, he wasn’t certain that their relationship was going to continue in the same manner as before. Already he felt an exquisite ache in his heart at the thought that he might not hold her in his arms again. He could see her from where he had set his sleeping blankets, facing away from him with her arms around the girl, and he gazed at the curve of Erin’s hip and the firelight dancing in her hair until he fell asleep.
He opened his eyes in the great hall of Shieldhaven, a high chamber graced with tall, carven pillars and proud banners and tapestries. The hall was suffused with a soft, silver light, and things seemed dim or indistinct, as if he viewed only possibilities and not the hall as it really was. He was dreaming again, but the accuracy and strength of the phantasm were remarkable; the air was cold but clear, and he could feel each breath he took.
His feet carried him away from the hall, wandering the corridors and chambers of the castle. He explored many of his childhood haunts, drifting ghostlike through his memories.
At length he found himself on the windswept battlements of the castle, but the air was still and quiet. His footfalls died away, and he had the strange impression that very little he did could disturb the silence of his dream. Gazing over the countryside, he saw little more than silver fog, and hints of dark forest beyond.
“Hello, Gaelin. I’ve been waiting for you.” The Mhor Daeric stepped out of nothingness to join him on the battlement.
His father appeared much as he had in life, dressed in the garments of soft gray that he preferred. But he seemed younger than Gaelin remembered, a tall, broad-shouldered man in the prime of his life, his hair streaked with silver, his face unmarked by the years that had worn him down. Daeric appeared as tangible as Gaelin himself, although limned by argent light.
“I haven’t met you in my dreams for many weeks now,”
Gaelin answered. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Your attention was elsewhere, Gaelin. You had little time or need for me.”
“I didn’t mean to forget you so soon.”
“The living go on with their cares and burdens, and yours have been heavier than most.” Daeric’s face glowed with a warm smile, and a humorous light danced in his eyes. “Be- sides, you haven’t forgotten me. Every day for months now, you’ve stood forward and done your best to heal Mhoried’s injuries. As long as you do that, I’ll never be forgotten.”
Daeric held out his hand to Gaelin. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” asked Gaelin.
“To Caer Winoene. You summoned me here because you needed me again. This is a way I can help you.”
Gaelin tentatively reached out to take his father’s hand.
The moment he touched the phantasm, the castle of Shieldhaven melted into silver mists, and he found himself standing on the hillsides overlooking Caer Winoene, under the starlit night. The ethereal quality of Shieldhaven was gone; now he was the one who shimmered with silver light, much like his father beside him. Gaelin suddenly understood that they existed as phantoms in the real world, the waking world.
He could make out the trenches excavated by the Ghoeran soldiers, ringing the Mhorien stronghold. Campfires dotted the plain beyond, surrounding batteries of siege engines. He turned his attention to Caer Winoene itself. The castle had only been partially repaired in the time Gaelin had occupied it, and under the Ghoeran bombardment, it was not faring well. If Caer Winoene had been garrisoned by anything less than a full army, the Ghoerans would have been able to press the attack and storm the breached defenses. But the castle itself formed only the centerpiece of a ring of ramparts, trenches, and redoubts that concealed the Mhorien army.
Examining the Mhorien lines, Gaelin realized the outer ramparts – the first line of defense – had been abandoned already and incorporated into the siege lines of the attackers.
He was appalled; the earthworks had been wrecked in only three days! No artillery he knew of could level an earthen dike that quickly. “They’ve lost the first line,” he breathed aloud.
Beside him, the Mhor Daeric nodded. “Bannier’s sorcery wreaked a great deal of harm before he left to confront you at Caer Duirga. The Ghoeran army numbers more than seven thousand veterans. Baesil has a shade over three thousand men still, enough to hold the ruins and the earthworks for some time. But he has another, more pressing problem. If Tuorel exploits Bannier’s work, he can drive Baesil’s men from the lakeshore, which would deprive Baesil of the water and food he needs to keep fighting. Caer Winoene won’t last a week after that.”
“I have to find a way to break the siege. I can’t lose Caer Winoene or the people who are trapped here.”
Daeric glimmered in the red torchlight of the hilltop. “I am afraid I cannot help you more,” he said. “You’re the Mhor now, and this is your battle to win or lose. But I have news that may hearten you.” He reached forward to clasp Gaelin’s arm, and the ramparts of Caer Winoene faded from view again.
This time, they appeared in a shadowed copse of trees, by the banks of a great river. Gaelin recognized it as the Stonebyrn, at a place close to where he had crossed into Mhoried while fleeing Tuorel’s hunters. All around them, an army had set its camp for the night. Tents and fires filled a large field, and Gaelin noticed the black and silver standard of Diemed hanging from a pole before a great pavilion nearby. A slight, graceful man with aquiline features and midnight hair stood nearby, dressed in the armor of a great noble. “It’s Vandiel of Diemed!” Gaelin said. “He’s coming to our aid!”
“He’s at least a week away from engaging Tuorel, and he only brought half of his army with him,” said Daeric. “Ghoere’s army outnumbers both the Mhoriens and the Diemans together.”
“Seriene said her father wouldn’t come until we’d shown that we can defeat Tuorel. What changed his mind?”
“Apparently, Seriene did. She’s much taken with you, Gaelin. She’s employed her magic to speak with her father several times since coming to your court, begging him to intervene.”
Daeric faced Gaelin, his silver gaze weighing on Gaelin’s conscience. “You should consider the advantages of a marriage to her.”
“I’m not sure that I love her,” Gaelin replied slowly.
“Love? That’s beside the point. You have a duty to Mhoried.”
“I know my duty.” Gaelin squared his shoulders and faced his father. “I know what you would do in my place. But I am not you, and I will have to find my own way.”
Daeric frowned, and their surroundings shifted again. They were in Shieldhaven once more, in the panelled study with its shelves of books and great leather chairs. His father sat in his customary place, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think this is the last time you’ll see me,” Daeric said. “You’ll make a good Mhor, Gaelin. You’ve been making your own decisions ever since the divine right passed to you on the banks of the Stonebyrn. Some have been bad, and some have been good, but they’ve been yours to make, and I won’t question them.
You are the Mhor now, not I, and Mhoried rests in your hands.” Daeric’s shade began to grow brighter and more translucent, while the study swirled away in mist and shadow.
“Wait! Please! How can I beat Tuorel?”
His father’s voice was growing fainter. “During my life and reign, I was ruled by duty. You, Gaelin, take after your mother.You are ruled by your heart. I won’t say which is better than the other… but I believe you should follow your heart. Duty never led me astray. I doubt your heart will betray you.”
Gaelin found himself standing on the slopes of Caer Duirga, looking down on their campsite. The sunrise was not far off; he could feel the warm light glinting on the easternmost peaks of the land, even though it would be a few minutes yet before the sun rose where he stood. He heard one last, distant whisper: “Farewell.” Then he knew that his father was gone.
A moment later, the sun touched his walking spirit, and Gaelin awoke again, this time in his own physical body. He sat up, alert and refreshed, looking around at the faces of his friends and companions. As dawn broke, Bull sighed and stood from where he’d been keeping watch, moving over to begin rousing the rest of the group. He stopped, surprised to find Gaelin already awake. “Good morning, my lord,” he said. “You’re quick to rise.”
“Tell everyone to pack as soon as they can,” Gaelin said.
“We have a long ride ahead of us today.”
Bull nodded. “If we push the horses, I reckon we can make Caer Winoene by nightfall tomorrow.”
“We’re not going to Caer Winoene,” Gaelin told him. “At least, not right away. The time’s come to raise the countryside against Tuorel.”
From Caer Duirga, Gaelin led them southeast through the wild reaches of the highlands. He pushed them hard, knowing his friends and soldiers were exhausted. The haunting images of his vision and his father’s words lingered in his mind, steeling him to do whatever was necessary to reach Caer Winoene with help. The brooding that had weighed on Gaelin during the ride to Bannier’s stronghold was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency and desperation. Mhoried was running out of time.
Through the morning, they picked their way through the stone-toothed hills and trackless heather-grown valleys. As they descended into the densely populated heartlands of Mhoried, Gaelin paused at each village and homestead to spread a call to arms. These people were highlanders, tough and quick to defend their scattered farms and herds. The lords, their knights, and their men-at-arms represented only a fraction of Mhoried’s fighting strength; by raising the countryside Gaelin was drawing hundreds or possibly thousands of men to his banner. Each time he stopped, he asked the people to send someone to the next village so the summons would spread throughout the northlands.
“Why have we waited so long to do this?” Seriene asked as they rode away from a freestead. Behind them, the twentyodd clansmen of fighting age were already scrambling to collect their weapons and begin their march. “Every village we’ve passed has answered your call, Gaelin.”
“I wanted to, when we first settled in at Caer Winoene,” Gaelin replied. “But how could we have fed them all? We needed these men at home, tending their crops and herds.
And you might remember, Mhoried’s levy was already decimated once, at Cwlldon Field. The folk of the southern counties were slaughtered there, and I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.”
“Goblin bands were riding roughshod over these freeholds and villages just a month ago,” Bull added. “Many of these men have been fighting since early spring, looking out after their own homes.”
By nightfall, Gaelin guessed they had ridden twenty or twenty-five miles. Although he was anxious to continue, he realized his companions were exhausted. He wondered if the strength of the Mhoried bloodline was buoying him, now that he needed every last reserve of his physical abilities, but even if that was the case, Erin, Ilwyn, Seriene, and his guards required rest. They hadn’t recovered from their harrowing ordeal in the Shadow World. As the sun sank in the green hills to the west, they camped in a stand of beech on a forested hillside.
Over a cold dinner, Gaelin noticed Ilwyn was a little more responsive, as if waking from a long sleep. When he finished eating, he brought her a tin cup of strong coffee and sat down beside her. “Ilwyn?” he said softly. “How do you feel?”
She shivered and looked up at him. For the first time since he’d brought her out of the darkness, he saw recognition in her eyes. “Gaelin? Where are we? What happened to me?”
“Hush. You’re all right. Bannier took you away, but now you’re back.” He glanced around and noticed that his traveling companions had drawn back a little to give him some privacy.
“We’re in Dhalsiel, maybe twenty miles or so from the Abbey of the Oak. I’m trying to raise an army to fight Tuorel.”
“I dreamed that you stood before the Red Oak. Father and Thendiere died, but you’re the Mhor now, aren’t you?”
“I am. I wish I could have helped them, Ilwyn.”
“It’s not your fault. Father sent you away. I wonder if somehow he knew what was going to happen.”
Gaelin shook his head. “I think he would have sent you and Liesele away, too, if that were true.”
“What are you going to do, Gaelin? Have you been fighting on all this time?”
He sighed and sat down beside her. “All spring and summer, it seems. But it’s nearly over. In five days, we’ll either break the siege of Caer Winoene, or Tuorel will crush us for good.”
Ilwyn put her hand on his shoulder. Somewhere behind her battered eyes, a flicker of her old fire and life showed.
“You’ll do it. After all, you were able to rescue me.”
“I had a lot of help,” he said, abashed. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to help you sooner than I did. I should have found some way to get you out of Bannier’s hands.”
Steadying her coffee tin with both hands, Ilwyn took a long drink, staring down into the cup. “I thought I was dead,” she said quietly. “It was so cold, and so quiet, and those stones all around me… it was as if I were in a great, dark tomb.” She closed her eyes, her face pale and still. “I don’t know if I will ever be free of it,” she whispered.
Gaelin put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s done now.
Bannier is gone, and you’re free. We’ll stay clear of the Shadow World for some time, I think,” he said with a weary smile. “Now, put it out of your mind, and get some rest.
We’ve a long way to travel tomorrow.”
Ilwyn soon fell asleep, her cheeks regaining a hint of their normal color.
The next morning, they continued into the rolling plains of central Mhoried, leaving the hills behind them. They soon came across the muddy path of the Northrun, in the southwest corner of the province of Dhalsiel. The road seemed clear, and from a quick examination, Gaelin guessed it hadn’t seen much use lately. Anyone who had fled from the Ghoeran occupation of the southlands would have passed this way a long time ago, and the road didn’t lead near enough to Caer Winoene to be useful as a supply route for Ghoere’s armies.
Still, there was a chance that Ghoeran marauders might be loitering in the area, trying to disrupt Mhorien movements and looking for easy loot.
Gaelin decided to risk the road, since time was of the essence. Again, he raised the countryside as he passed, although many of the towns and settlements near the road had been abandoned because they were too easy for the Ghoerans to find and attack. He rode the others into the ground, keeping up a grueling pace that left both humans and horses exhausted; even Blackbrand’s remarkable stamina was tested by the ride. Late in the day, Gaelin rode up beside Bull and asked, “How much farther to Sirilmeet?”
“About two miles ahead, there’s a trail that cuts crosscountry,”
Bull said. “If we hold this pace, we’ll be there a little after dark.”
The skies began to grow cloudy as they turned off onto Bull’s path, and darkened throughout the remainder of the afternoon. For a time, they passed through wild, untended lands, held by no lords and only sparsely settled. The going was difficult, and they were tired; Boeric endured the pain of his wounded leg, but every now and then a hiss escaped through his teeth as his horse took a bad jolt. By sunset, they were stumbling along, too tired to think of anything except the next step. Gaelin welcomed the sight of Sirilmeet’s quiet fields and farmhouses.
Riding into the center of the town, Gaelin discovered that word of his arrival had preceded him. A hundred or more of the villagers were assembled on the commons by torchlight, the fires leaping and crackling beneath the stars, and as the battered group appeared, the Sirilmeeters raised a resounding cheer. “Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin!”
Even in his exhaustion, Gaelin was profoundly moved.
The crowd swirled around him, dozens of people pressing close to offer their hands. Blackbrand neighed nervously and pranced back as the crowd engulfed him. “What’s going on?”
Gaelin shouted to Bull.
“I guess Dhalsiel’s lack of loyalty didn’t sit well with them,” the big farmer replied. “I told you Sirilmeet would fight!”
Gaelin glanced over at Erin. Her face shone in the firelight, and tears glistened in her eyes. Seriene sat a little way beyond her, a puzzled look on her face. He realized that the princess had a hard time understanding the loyalty commoners could feel for their lords. He reached down to return the handshakes and greetings as best he could. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again.
“We’re ready to march under the falcon banner, Mhor Gaelin!” Pushing his way through the crowd, Master Piere and his sons fought their way to Gaelin’s side. “Just tell us where and when!”
“Piere! It’s good to see you!” Gaelin leaned down and clasped the farmer’s hand in a stout grip. “I need you at Caer Winoene, in five days’ time. How many men can you bring?”
“Five hundred, or my name’s not Piere,” the farmer replied.
“Good,” Gaelin replied. He was starting to feel that there might be a chance. “Now, can – ”
“The count! The count is here!” From the edge of the commons, a confused cry arose as people turned to catch a glimpse of a long column of riders approaching the green.
Gaelin looked over the crowd surrounding him. He could make out the red and blue of Ghoeran cavalry, a patrol of sixty or more riding into the village. His heart sank; they were too tired to flee, and the Ghoerans were already upon them.
If he ordered the Sirilmeeters to attack, they would be slaughtered by the mounted troops in close combat.
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, look!”
Cuille Dhalsiel and a handful of his retainers rode in the center of the Ghoeran column. The Mhorien lord was armed for battle in a light suit of half-plate, wearing the yellow and black of Dhalsiel over his arms. The Ghoeran captain beside him spotted Gaelin and began to bark out orders, but Cuille caught his arm and silenced him.
“What do we do, Mhor Gaelin?” Piere was grimacing, his hand on the rusty old short sword on his belt. “Do we attack?”
“Wait a moment,” Gaelin said quietly. He trotted ahead a couple of steps, and raised his voice. “Cuille! I want to talk!”
“Your fame’s growing by leaps and bounds, Gaelin,” Cuille replied, doffing his helmet and shaking out his mane of hair. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a look of bitterness and defeat. He laughed hollowly. “We heard you were coming here hours ago. Why Sirilmeet?”
“I knew there were loyal Mhoriens here,” Gaelin answered.
“I need them at Caer Winoene.”
The Ghoeran captain growled in agitation. “That’s the Mhor’s son, Dhalsiel! We must take him!”
Cuille gave the fellow a pained look. “You are my guest, sir, and not my lord. Wait a moment.” He looked back at Gaelin. “Tuorel’s placed quite a bounty on your head. If I brought you to him, I’d triple my lands and holdings.”
“Do you really want to betray me, Cuille? You let me leave your castle before.”
Cuille fell silent for a moment, studying Gaelin. Their eyes locked, and he flushed and looked away. “Princess Ilwyn! I am delighted to see you alive and well. I feared that you had come to harm in Bannier’s hands.”
Ilwyn somehow drew herself up, banishing the exhaustion with an unconscious will and throwing back her head. “Lord Cuille. I see you’ve reached an accommodation with Ghoere.”
The Mhorien turncoat gazed at Ilwyn, his face softening for a moment. “I did so for your safety. I’m sorry that Tuorel did not honor his bargain.”
“Then why do you remain in his camp?” Gaelin asked.
“What fealty do you owe him? It’s not too late to honor your allegiance to Mhoried, Cuille. To honor your allegiance to me.”
“Gaelin…” A glimpse of the Cuille Gaelin had once known appeared, though masked in dark cynicism. “I’m damned already. How could I undo what I’ve done? How could you ever trust me again?” He returned his gaze to Ilwyn and bowed in the saddle. “My lady, I am forever unworthy of you.”
The cavalry captain spat in disgust. “All right, Dhalsiel!
I’m not going to wait on you all night!”
Cuille glanced at the fellow in irritation. “I said I want to talk to him, and I will. Now be patient, good sir.” He tapped his horse’s flanks and walked forward.
Behind them, the Ghoeran cursed. “That’s it. Take them all!”
The cavalrymen spurred forward, slashing into the crowd of Sirilmeeters. In an instant, the scene was transformed into a mad, swirling melee of torchlight and flashing swords. Instead of fleeing, the villagers turned on the Ghoerans with the fero city of a wounded bear. Armed with pitchforks, clubs, and staves, they surged forward to meet the attack, dragging Ghoerans down from their mounts even as the cavalrymen slashed and hacked with abandon. Gaelin kicked Blackbrand forward, hauling his sword from its saddle sheath and making for the nearest attackers. His small retinue followed in his wake.
Across the square, Cuille drew his sword and lunged after the Ghoerans sweeping past him. “Stop! Stop, I beg you! This is unnecessary!” He raised his arm, trying to interpose himself between the cavalrymen and the villagers, but the Ghoeran behind him leaned forward and rammed his lance into the count’s back. Cuille gasped and spun out of the saddle, falling into the surging brawl of the square. A moment later, an archer on a nearby rooftop shot the captain through the throat. Gagging on blood, the Ghoeran officer fell forward and slid out of his saddle.
Gaelin met the first of the Ghoerans and engaged the fellow with a series of overhand cuts, but before he could strike a telling blow, the man was spitted on a pitchfork and dragged screaming from his saddle. As Gaelin looked for another man to engage, there was sudden brilliant light and a sharp crack! as Seriene unleashed a bolt of lightning that crashed through the main body of the Ghoeran column. In moments, the Ghoerans turned to flight, their front ranks drowned in a sea of angry villagers and their rear ranks raked by archers and magic. Gaelin watched in exhaustion as the Sirilmeeters streamed after the retreating enemy, brandishing torches and screaming in rage.
Behind them, dozens of dead and wounded, both Mhorien and Ghoeran, littered the town commons. Gaelin spotted Cuille Dhalsiel lying beside the dead captain. He slid down from Blackbrand’s back and ran forward, dropping to his knees beside the dying Mhorien. “Cuille! Are you – ”
Cuille looked up at him, his face pale and drawn. “Should have known a Ghoeran was going to stab me in the back, sooner or later,” he said. He gazed up past Gaelin. “I’m sorry… didn’t know it would be like this.”
“It’s not my place to forgive you, Cuille. Make your own peace with what you’ve done.”
“I told you, Gaelin… I’m damned as a traitor.”
“But you’re not dying as one,” Gaelin replied. Cuille smiled weakly in response, and then his eyes fixed on the dark skies overhead. Gaelin closed them, and stood, ignoring the tears that streaked his face. Regardless of what he might have done, Cuille had been his friend.
Ilwyn stumbled past him and knelt beside Cuille, cradling his head in her arms. She sagged back, numb with grief. “Ah, Cuille,” she said. She closed her eyes and sobbed. Quietly, Gaelin raised her up and led her away. Already, the folk of Sirilmeet were tending to their dead and wounded, but in the midst of their grief there was also a fierce pride in their victory.
The villagers had finally struck back.
That night, Gaelin and his party stayed beneath Master Piere’s roof again. After the fight, no one slept well. Gaelin found himself staring at the darkness for hours. How many men was he leading into death? How many men like Piere and Bull would never return from the campaign? He knew it was pointless to brood over these questions, but he couldn’t help it. Eventually he drifted off into a restless slumber.
In the gray hour before dawn, he rose and dressed himself, and awakened the others.
“Where will you go next, m’lord Mhor?” asked Piere. “Will you try to raise the southlands, too? From what I hear, they’re ready to fight.”
“There’s no time,” Gaelin said. “As it is, the muster of Sirilmeet will be hard-pressed to reach Lake Winoene in time. If I rode another half-day, the men I reached wouldn’t be able to make it to the fight.”
“Four days to Lake Winoene? Bah! We’ll be there in three,”
Piere boasted. But he didn’t argue the point that anyone further away would not be able to join the levy of Mhoried. “Will you return to Caer Winoene, then?”
Gaelin nodded. “I’ve one more stop first, and then I’ll make all speed for the muster. I need to make contact with the Diemans.”
“We have about thirty lads with horses good enough to keep up with you,” Piere offered. “Let me send them on ahead with you, just in case. Five guardsmen just aren’t enough to stand between you and danger, should you meet a Ghoeran patrol.”
Gaelin thought of declining – larger parties always moved slower than small ones, and he was pressed for time – but acquiesced.
“I’ll be proud to ride with the muster of Sirilmeet, Master Piere. Gather them quickly, though; we need to be on our way.” Within the hour, Gaelin’s small party grew into a band of forty. Most of the militiamen were unarmored, but a number had served as cavalrymen in Mhoried’s army, and they knew how to use the lance and bow from horseback.
While they waited for the Sirilmeeters to gather their gear, Gaelin was surprised by the arrival of Castellan Trebelaen from Castle Dhalsiel. The stocky knight approached and dropped to one knee, removing his helm. “My lord Mhor, I wish to report that the Ghoerans were driven out of Castle Dhalsiel last night. We heard how Count Dhalsiel died, and… we feel the least we can do is offer our swords in your service.”
“Your family is the closest to the Dhalsiels, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked. “You have a claim on the county.”
“My lord, I press no claim now. I don’t feel that I have the right.” Trebelaen looked up, his face working with emotion.
“Dhalsiel’s played a shameful part in this fight so far. I’d like to help make up for that.”
Gaelin looked over at Piere. “Master Piere? Do the folk of Sirilmeet have anything to say about this?”
Piere shrugged. “Mhor Gaelin, Count Dhalsiel’s men were under the orders of their lord, and they offered us no harm.
We just didn’t care for the company Count Cuille kept.”
“Very well, Sir Trebelaen. We need all the help we can get.”
Trebelaen stood and replaced his helmet. “Thank you, my lord Mhor. There are a few more of us who feel the same way.
They wanted me to find out your mind first.”
“How many?” Gaelin asked.
“About six hundred men-at-arms, my lord.” Trebelaen smiled. “With your permission, we’ll set out for Caer Winoene by noon.”
Gaelin blinked. “That’s almost all your strength.”
“Mhoried needs us, my lord. I couldn’t see holding back.”
“Thank you, Lord Trebelaen. We’ll see you at Lake Winoene in a couple of days, then.” Gaelin reached forward and clasped the knight’s arm. “It’s good to have you on our side.”
As the sun rose into the cloud-racked sky, Gaelin and his reinforced company set out again, riding into the wet, gray morning. Gaelin directed Bull to lead them to the abbey, and by midmorning they sighted the Haelynite stronghold across the downs and hills. The stone walls of the monastery bristled beneath the clouds like a knotted gray fist clenched in the hilltop, angry and warlike. Under the grim, glowering walls, Erin brought her horse alongside Gaelin and said, “You intend to ask the prefect for her aid again? She already refused to help you once.”
“My circumstances were different then. Mhoried’s army was smashed, and I was a fugitive accompanied by only a handful of retainers. Things might not be much better, but maybe Iviena’s had a change of heart in the last month and a half.” Gaelin glanced at her and smiled. “Besides, the abbey is along the way. What could it hurt?”
Riding to the front of the fortified retreat, they entered through the open gates and rode into the great courtyard in the center of the monastery. An unsettled feeling flitted through Gaelin’s stomach as he recalled the ambush at Shieldhaven, but he had nothing to fear: the Haelynites welcomed his arrival with military honors. A gaunt, hatchetfaced captain wearing the garb of a brother superior over his armor personally escorted Gaelin and his immediate entourage into the temple.
High Prefect Iviena met him in the same audience chamber he had visited before, but instead of the humble habit she had worn on the previous occasion, she was dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor. He removed his helm, and strode forward to kneel before Iviena, kissing her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “You were expecting me, Prefect?”
Iviena smiled, motioning him to rise. “The countryside is afire with rumors of war, Gaelin. From here to the Stonebyrn the militias are gathering. We may be cloistered to contemplate Haelyn’s glory, but we aren’t that sheltered.”
“You know why I’m here, then?”
“I suspect that you wish to rally us to your cause, Mhor Gaelin.”
“If I remember right, you have nearly a thousand men under arms here, including three hundred Knights Templar,” Gaelin said. He met Iviena’s eyes, letting her see a glimpse of the white fire that fueled him. “We have a hard fight ahead of us, and we’ll meet Tuorel’s army with or without your soldiers.
But they’d be a great help, Iviena. They might even tip the battle in our favor.”
The old priestess turned away, facing the small altar of Haelyn that stood at the end of hall. Closing her eyes, she breathed a silent prayer. Gaelin waited quietly. “The issue is still in doubt,” she said at last. “But you are the Mhor now, not a pretender or fugitive, and you deserve our support. The soldiers of the faith shall join you against Ghoere.”
Gaelin risked a quick glance at Erin; she offered a fiery grin, her face flushed. For the first time, he felt a sense of something greater than himself coming together. The events he had set in motion were gathering momentum, drawing him along with a newfound sense of gravity and history. His place was at the front of this rising tide, in the center of the storm, and they’d know in a few days whether he had done everything he needed to do.
He looked back at Iviena and clasped her hand in a warrior’s handshake. “We’ve half a day’s light left,” he said with a bare smile. “How soon can your men march?”
Thick, black smoke wreathed the Mhorien lines, turning the battle into a swirling hell of fire, blood, and torment. Surrounded by the black-armored knights of his Iron Guard, Baron Tuorel rode forward with a grim smile of satisfaction hidden beneath his wolf-shaped visor. He delighted in the clash of arms, the fierce struggle for survival and victory, the ultimate test of who was right and who was wrong. He and his knights had spent the morning in a pitched fight on the Mhorien ramparts, driving Ceried’s men back in a bitter struggle.
Water splashed around his war-horse’s bloody hooves.
He’d finally fought through to the shores of Lake Winoene, and all around him his knights were driving the Mhoriens back into the ruins. Here along the lakeshore, the smoke was thinner, and Tuorel raised his visor to gasp for breath while he watched the end of the fight. After a few minutes, a blocky form in red and black armor approached on foot, carrying a spiked mace.
“Lord Baehemon,” said Tuorel. “I see you’ve lost your horse.”
Baehemon lifted his own visor and bared his teeth in a savage snarl. “They know how to fight, all right. We must have lost half our force storming that dike.” He looked around at the corpse-strewn battlefield, and grunted in satisfaction.
“We’ve got the lakeshore. How long do you think old Ceried can keep his men going without water?”
“Three days,” Tuorel said. “We’ll have to reinforce this position.
He has no choice but to try and take it back.” He dismounted, his feet splashing in the cold, muddy water, and then reached down to wash the grime and mud from his face.
“What about the Diemans? They’ll be here by then.”
Tuorel smiled and looked at his general. “We’ll hold what we’ve got with the foot troops and pull off the cavalry and knights to meet the Dieman attack.” Catching his horse by the reins, the baron swung himself up into the saddle again, and walked his horse up on to the gravel shore. “Now, let’s see if we can find the fight again. I’m not done with these dogs yet.”