Riding Blackbrand, Gaelin led the Mhoriens along the north shore of the lake. The hills came down to the water at the lake’s western end, and Gaelin was afraid the Ghoerans would try to hold the narrow front between the heights and the lake, halting his advance before he even got started – but his fears proved empty, and the Ghoerans didn’t oppose his advance. Tuorel wants us all within reach of his jaws before he strikes, he thought glumly, but he took the bait and continued his march.
The Mhorien militia had a greater distance to cover than the southern force, a march of almost ten miles, and Gaelin hoped that his men would not be exhausted by the time they reached the Ghoeran lines. The light equipment of the militiamen was to their advantage in the march. They weren’t burdened by the heavy arms and armor of the Diemans or Haelynites and were much better off than the heavier troops would have been. The weather was another advantage for Gaelin, a cool and fair day that made for an easy marc h.
About three thousand men marched with Gaelin’s host, the majority of them equipped with little more than longbows or spears, and perhaps a rusty old sword or a boiled-leather helmet.
Given a fair fight in an open field, Ghoere’s professional soldiers and mercenaries would cut them to pieces, but Gaelin hoped that the swarming chaos of a brawl for the Ghoeran siege lines would prevent the enemy commanders from wielding their army as a cohesive machine. In a man-to-man fight, the Mhoriens would give as good as they got.
The heart of his force was a crack guard composed of one hundred and fifty of the Knights Guardian of Mhoried. In the beginning of the war, his father had dispatched many of the knights to aid the highland lords in repelling the goblin invasion; riding in bands of ten to twenty, the knights had fought long and hard against the northern threat. They’d been trickling into Caer Winoene over the past two to four weeks, depending on how matters stood in various places across the northlands. The knights may have been few in number, but they were perhaps the finest fighters on the field. More importantly, Gaelin knew almost every one of them from his years as a squire and a knight-aspirant, and he was reassured by their company. The Guardians were led by Gaelin’s old master, Knight Commander Anduine.
Although Gaelin was unhappy about it, Erin and Huire had joined his retinue, while Seriene rode with her father in the southern force. Gaelin had argued with Erin in particular for most of the morning with little luck; she ignored his orders to remove herself from the army, instead pointing out that her magic might be useful in coordinating with Vandiel’s host. “Besides,” she had said as they rode out of the camp, “I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to you.”
When Gaelin had pointed out he felt the same way about her, she replied, “We should watch out for each other, then.”
Throughout the morning, Gaelin rode up and down the column, letting the men who followed him see him. His armor was resplendent; some of the Knights Guardian had taken the time during the night to repair his battered plate and refurbish his surcoat and coat of arms. Even Blackbrand’s mail skirts were covered by a brand-new drape of green and white, with the argent falcon boldly displayed on each flank.
Around noon, they called a brief halt about three miles from the Ghoeran position. The men rested and ate a spare midday meal of dried beef and mutton, cheese, and hardtack.
While they rested, Gaelin sought out the Haelynite captain who was his liaison with the rest of the army. The Knight Templar was a pious, severe man named Ulmaeric, and Gaelin found the fellow never volunteered anything except brief prayers to Haelyn. “Sir Ulmaeric, where’s the southern army now?”
“They started their march two hours after we did, as planned, my lord,” Ulmaeric replied. “They are almost directly opposite us, on the other side of the lake.” He pointed at a low hilltop about three miles away, on the opposite shore.
“We have signalmen on the hill, there.”
There was a quick flash of light from the hilltop, followed by three more in succession. “You’re using mirrors?” Gaelin asked.
“Haelyn smiled upon us,” Ulmaeric said. “Mirrors or smoke allow us to stay in contact with Prince Vandiel’s force, but if the day had been foggy or rainy, we would have been cut off from them. That signal you just saw reported that Prince Vandiel’s army is confronted by a large Ghoeran host.”
“See if you can find out if it’s all of Tuorel’s forces, or only part,” Gaelin said. “If Vandiel’s facing the entire Ghoeran army, we’re going to have to move fast to threaten Tuorel’s rear and keep him from destroying Vandiel’s force.”
Ulmaeric saluted and set off in search of a messenger. From the hilltops on the north side of the lake, they could signal the southern post, but Ulmaeric still had to get someone to carry the message to a place where it could be easily seen. Gaelin watched him ride off – they’d have to resume the march immediately, now that Tuorel was showing his hand. He started to give the order to his standard-bearer, but his eye fell on a small rock that overlooked the resting column. He rode over to the boulder, dismounted and climbed to the top.
“Soldiers of Mhoried!” he shouted, to get their attention.
All along the column, men were sitting by the roadside or lying down with their heads on their packs. As they noticed Gaelin preparing to address them, they fell silent and turned or sat up to see him better. In a few moments, Gaelin had more than a thousand men looking at him.
“Soldiers of Mhoried! We’re about three miles from the Ghoeran lines. Tuorel does not want to face you – he’s gone south to meet the Diemans and the Haelynites instead!” That evoked a few chuckles from the waiting militiamen. “We’ll march about two miles more. When we reach the open lands around Caer Winoene, we’ll break out of the column, form a line, and advance. Stay with your companies, and listen to the Knights Templar! They’re my means for communicating with you. Our first priority will be to take the siege lines and free Count Ceried’s men. Once we’ve chased the Ghoerans away from the castle, we’re going to press forward and attack the Ghoeran camp, with Ceried’s men to back us up. It’s going to be a long day, but by the grace of Lord Haelyn, we’ll send Tuorel back to Ghoere with his tail between his legs!”
The men surged to their feet, cheering. When they quieted again, Gaelin finished. “I’d hoped to rest here for an hour, but we can’t give the Ghoerans too much time to hammer the Diemans. We have to press ahead to get to the fight in time.
Good luck to you all!” With that, he waved once and jumped down to Blackbrand’s saddle, cantering back to the vanguard.
The cheers of the freemen rang from the hillside out over the lake, a roar of defiance that could be heard for miles.
Gaelin hoped Tuorel could hear it, wherever he was. As he came to the command company again, the standard-bearer raised his banner and signaled the march. The army surged forward again, following Gaelin to war.
Baron Noered Tuorel sat astride his charger, dressed for battle. His Iron Guard held the center of the Ghoeran line, arrayed in rank upon rank of bright steel, like the fangs of a great armored dragon gaping wide in anticipation. Calruile rested in its sheath by his pommel, and he caressed the hilt absently. If he could bring Gaelin to personal combat, a thrust through the heart would wrest the power of the Mhoried blood away from the boy, settling the Mhorien rebellion once and for all. From there, an ambitious man didn’t have to stretch his imagination to see the Iron Throne of Anuire itself.
Tuorel grinned in anticipation; one way or the other, the affair would be settled today.
He turned to the captain of his guard, Lady Avaera. She was beautiful and deadly, like a well-made sword, and Tuorel admired her in the way he might admire a predatory cat. “Any reports on where Gaelin of Mhoried rides today?” he asked. “I must know, before I engage these fools in front of us.”
Avaera glanced at him, and slipped her steel dragonbeaked helm over her face. “I’ll check with the master of scouts immediately, my lord.” She cantered away, leaving Tuorel to consider the army that opposed his own. The Diemans he knew well, having skirmished against them several times in the past decade in the frontier lands of Roesone and Endier. They were good troops, on a man-for-man basis probably the equal of his own army. The Haelynite troops he’d never fought before, and there was a scattering of minor Mhorien lords mixed in. All the troops on the enemy line seemed to be professional soldiers; he guessed the Mhorien levies he’d heard about were circling the lake to attack his siege lines from the north.
Even without the men he’d left behind in the trenches, his army outnumbered the Dieman and Haelynite force three men to two. The question in his mind was not whether he would win, but how many of the enemy soldiers his cavalry could ride down in the pursuit. Tuorel meant to smash his enemies so badly that no one in Mhoried would ever dare take arms against him again.
He spied Avaera returning, cantering in front of the Ghoeran lines. She rode up to his banner and saluted. “My lord, the master of scouts reports that the Mhor’s banner has been sighted north of the castle. Apparently, the Mhorien levies are preparing to assault our lines while we’re busy down here.”
Tuorel nodded. “It’s a good plan on their part, but the Mhor’s showing a naive confidence in his conscripts. I’ve never seen a levy that could fight worth a damn, let alone storm a defended earthwork.” He looked around at the battle; the Diemans were holding their ground, about eight hundred yards away, apparently hesitant to attack an army that outnumbered their own. No matter; Tuorel would make that decision for them, in just a moment. He rubbed his jaw and scowled. “What of our so-called allies?”
“The goblins are ready, my lord, but they’re not happy with their position. They want to join the fight.”
“Kraith can keep them under control. All right, then, here are my orders: Avaera, take command of this force, and attack the Diemans with everything you’ve got, save the Iron Guard. You outnumber them, so bring the fight to Prince Vandiel. Capture the prince, if you can, but if he perishes in battle, I’ll not mind.”
Avaera swallowed. “Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”
“I’m taking the Iron Guard and going to the northern lines to confront Gaelin. I want the pleasure of killing him myself,”
Tuorel snarled. He was not happy about leaving the southern battle, which he regarded as the more important of the two engagements, in Avaera’s hands; her experience was in skirmishing and raids, not open field battles. But with Baehemon dead, he had no one else he could trust to do as he ordered.
As he had each day for the past week, he regretted killing the seasoned general.
“What shall I do about the Markazorans?”
“Don’t worry about that; I’ll handle Kraith. If you think you need him, send word to me first, and I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at her face, obscured by her sinister helmet device. “You’d better get to work; it looks like Vandiel’s getting ready to charge.” Tuorel pointed at the Dieman line, closing at a rapid trot. “Remember, take him alive if you can. And don’t disappoint me.”
Avaera saluted, and Tuorel rode off again with a curt gesture at the standard-bearer. The Iron Guards peeled off from the Ghoeran line, and followed him as he galloped north to confront Gaelin Mhoried’s attack. He didn’t even bother to spare a glance over his shoulder to see how she handled the massive shock of the first Dieman and Haelynite charge.
“ They’re waiting behind the ramparts,” said Boeric, squinting at the Ghoeran earthworks. The sturdy sergeant was serving as Gaelin’s standard-bearer; although his leg still pained him, he refused to sit out the battle.
Gaelin frowned, studying the maze of earthworks that confronted his column. “Well, I didn’t expect Tuorel would just line up his troops for us to shoot down with a few volleys of arrows.”
Lord Anduine, the commander of the Knights Guardian, trotted close to Gaelin. “This could be a damned hard fight, my lord Mhor. Our lads have courage, but I’m not sure if I would ask the best-seasoned troops you could find to attack the siege lines without cover or heavy engines of some kind.”
“We don’t have the luxury of preparing a deliberate attack,” Gaelin replied. “It’s right now, or not at all.”
“I hope you have some kind of plan?”
Gaelin took off his helm for a better view and rode a few steps ahead. His army was lined up four hundred yards shy of the Ghoeran defenses, just outside crossbow range. He could see the Ghoeran soldiers standing on top of their wall, jeering and hooting as they tried to taunt the Mhoriens into a rash attack. The dark walls of Caer Winoene were visible just beyond.
What are our advantages? Gaelin asked himself. We’ve got nearly two thousand archers right here; we’ve got a thousand spearmen; we must outnumber the fellows in those ramparts by a long margin, if Tuorel is facing the Diemans. Now he just had to figure out how to cross the open ground and storm the ramparts without getting his men slaughtered. Gaelin realized he should have thought more about this part of the plan – in retrospect, he should have known it would come down to this.
He glanced up and down the lines at his own men. Many of the farmers and herdsmen were leaning on their bows, or checking the flights on their arrows, and not a few were gazing idly in his direction to see what he would do.
Erin followed him. In a low voice, she asked, “I have some illusions at my command, but I’m not sure what I could do to affect so many.”
“Let’s save your spells for now. I think I know what we can do here.” Abruptly, Gaelin turned back to his officers.
“Gather all our spearmen in the center, and send them to the attack. The archers on either flank will concentrate their fire on the positions the spearmen are going to attack. That’ll keep the Ghoerans down under cover, while our spearmen advance. Then, when our fellows hit the ramparts, we hold our fire. Once the spearmen are in the Ghoeran lines, they’ll keep them busy enough for our archers to advance in turn.”
Lord Anduine weighed Gaelin’s plan. “If I were the Ghoeran commander, I’d hold back a heavy force of some kind as a reserve, a little ways off the dike.”
“We’ll use the Knights Guardian to hit any reserve they have nearby, while the spearmen secure the dike,” Gaelin said. “I’ll lead that contingent myself.”
“My lord Mhor, that will be very dangerous,” Erin said.
“You have no way of knowing what the Ghoerans may have hiding behind those ramparts.”
“Your concerns are noted, Erin,” Gaelin said. “But I’ll not linger in the rear while men are fighting in my name. Herald, pass the orders, if you please.”
The Mhoriens shifted so the Knights Guardian held the center, just behind a broad wedge of militiamen with spears and shields. When everyone was in place, Gaelin gave the orders:
“Spearmen, take the wall. Archers, advance and cover them.”
With a ragged yell, the Mhorien levy surged forward in a disorganized, screaming mass, bunching and thinning as each man made his way forward as best he could. To any military commander’s eye, it must have looked like a disaster – but Gaelin knew that even a line of disciplined troops would break on the earthworks, so the lack of order wasn’t the disadvantage that it seemed. On either side, the archers trotted forward to get into bowshot of the walls.
A hail of arrows and bolts greeted the oncoming tide of spearmen, but as the Mhorien archers came into range, they replied with a barrage of arrows that darkened the sky above the Ghoeran position. Spearmen stumbled and fell, as Ghoeran bolts found them in the surging ranks of the charge, but before the Ghoeran crossbowmen could prepare for a second volley, they were driven from the top of the wall by the storm of Mhorien arrows. Gaelin let the spearmen get within a hundred yards of the wall and then nodded to Anduine. “Lord Knight, let’s get to the walls on the heels of the spearmen.”
“If they’re thrown back, it will go badly for them,” Anduine cautioned. “We’ll trample them under our own hooves.”
“I know. I’m gambling that they won’t be repelled,” Gaelin said. “Let’s go.”
Anduine sounded the charge, and Gaelin joined Blackbrand with the line of Knights Guardian thundering forward toward the lines. He had nothing left in reserve; every man was committed to the attack. Ahead of him, the spearmen waded through the ditch in front of the low earth mound, kicking and knocking down the sharpened stakes on the dike’s face so that the cavalry could follow. As the spearmen struggled up the hillside, the Mhorien archers ceased firing and rushed forward themselves, sprinting toward the battlements with hand axes, knives, and short swords to join the fray.
The first ranks of spearmen made it to the top of the wall before they met any serious resistance. To avoid the deadly sweep of the Mhorien arrows, the Ghoeran troops had retreated to the reverse slope of the dike, and as the fire lifted, the Ghoerans surged back to reclaim the wall. But Gaelin’s stratagem worked. Instead of catching the Mhoriens as they floundered in the staked ditch and soft earth of the dike’s face, the Ghoerans missed their best chance to halt the Mhorien charge and had to meet them on equal footing. As ordered, Gaelin’s spearmen made no attempt to push in from the wall, but instead turned left and right to push sideways and get out of the way of the Knights Guardian.
His trusted sword raised above his head, Gaelin raced Blackbrand down, through, and up the other side of the ditch, swimming through the loose dirt until he struggled up on to the wall top and dropped down the other side. Roaring a challenge, Gaelin led the charge as they crashed into the heavy Ghoeran infantry who were streaming forward to hold the line. In a matter of seconds, Gaelin’s vision of who was where on the field of battle vanished, and he hewed wildly on either side of his saddle.
Blackbrand plowed through dozens of men, trampling them to the ground as Gaelin parried and slashed his way through the press. All around him, the Knights Guardian made short work of the Ghoeran infantry – in a close-quarters fight, there were very few infantry who could stand up to the weight and power of a line of horsemen.
Finding himself in the clear, Gaelin stood and twisted in his saddle to see what was happening. He turned back again just in time to catch the fall of a halberd with his shield and knock it aside, leaning forward to spit the Ghoeran before the fellow could recover from his mighty blow. Gaelin glanced around again, and found several knights were clustered around him, screening him from the fight. The reverse side of the dike was a gigantic, muddy brawl as the Ghoeran defenders found themselves in hand-to-hand combat with the Mhorien archers, who now streamed up and over the wall to join the fray. While the Ghoerans were better troops, the unexpected attack on their reserve had prevented an effective counterattack, and now weight of numbers and sheer hard fighting would decide the issue.
“Anduine!” Gaelin shouted. “Take half the knights and ride left. I’ll go right, and we’ll help out with the melee!”
Anduine’s helmet bobbed up and down, and the old commander drove his men along the base of the dike, riding down the knots of Ghoerans who waited to join the fray.
Gaelin took his own knights and did the same, riding in the other direction. Embattled on three sides, the Ghoerans were pushed off the ramparts and into the no-man’s-land between their two lines of defense. Here, on the flat and open ground between the earthworks, they closed ranks and began to hold their ground with more discipline, while Gaelin’s disorganized levy suddenly found themselves facing troops experienced in close-order fighting. The attack began to stall, and Gaelin growled in frustration. They were so close!
“My lord Mhor! Look!” Boeric was leaning over to point at Caer Winoene. Even as Gaelin watched, the green and white emblem of Mhoried was run proudly up the highest flagpole, announcing his return. With a great peal of trumpets and a thunderous shout, a thousand pikemen surged up and out of the Mhorien defenses to attack the Ghoerans from the re a r. The inward-facing trenches had been nearly abandoned in order to meet the attack of Gaelin’s militiamen, and Baesil’s infantry swept over the Ghoeran lines without breaking stride.
While Baesil’s men engaged the Ghoerans, Ulmaeric sounded the withdrawal to break his archers free of the hand-to-hand combat and managed to form up several companies of bowmen to menace the Ghoeran position. Now embattled on all sides, with archers in easy range to rake the center of their formation, the Ghoerans broke and retreated to the east, circling Caer Winoene as they were channeled away by their own ramparts. Gaelin’s exuberant forces pursued them closely, and as they swept around the castle, they rolled up the Ghoeran siege lines.
“Your timing is perfect, my lord Mhor!” Count Baesil rode up, surrounded by a small guard of cavalrymen. “I’m glad to see you again, that’s for certain.”
“Baesil!” Gaelin leaned over to embrace the old count, thumping his gauntleted fist on the other man’s back.
“Thanks for the help. I don’t know if we could have finished them without your sortie.”
“It’s not over yet. There’s one hell of a fight about a mile south of here. The better part of Ghoere’s army is down that way, engaging the Diemans and the Haelynites. Good timing for your allies, too, by the way.”
Gaelin looked off toward the south, but the castle and its attendant fortifications prevented him from catching even a glimpse of Vandiel’s fray. “Baesil, the Diemans are just trying to hold on until they get some help. How many men can you sortie toward the Ghoeran camp, and how soon?”
“I can throw fifteen hundred cavalry at him right now, followed by a thousand mixed troops. That’ll only leave me five hundred to hold the castle, if things go poorly.”
“If things go poorly, it won’t matter how long we hold Caer Winoene. Get them ready, and bring every man you can spare.” Gaelin looked around at the streaming mass of his militiamen and shook his head. “It’ll be a miracle if I can get these lads back into fighting order before sundown. Ulmaeric, pass the word. Tell your officers to lead the militiamen to the south side of the castle and assemble them on the open field. I want them ready to march on the Ghoeran camp in half an hour.”
Ulmaeric’s jaw dropped. “Half an hour? It can’t be done.”
“We’ll do it anyway,” Gaelin declared. “Now pass the orders, and follow me.” With Boeric holding his standard high, Gaelin spurred Blackbrand in a rapid canter, circling the castle’s defenses. “Men of Mhoried! Follow me!”
Although they were little more than a mob, the Mhorien levy slowly began to surge after Gaelin, following in his wake. A number pursued the broken remnants of the Ghoerans, but everywhere Gaelin passed, the Mhoriens raised a cheer and ran after him, by twos and threes and dozens. On the southern side of Caer Winoene, Gaelin led them out over the Ghoeran dike and halted, giving his officers a chance to rally the shouting mob. Ahead of him, a half-mile across the trampled nomads land before the castle, he could see the tents, palisades, and siege engines of the Ghoeran camp. And beyond the camp, he could see the flash of steel in the distance, and he felt the thunderous shock of the armies clashing. Impatiently, he danced Blackbrand across the line, shouting orders and encouragement to the militiamen, directing them to one standard or the other to rebuild their organization.
“What next, Gaelin?” asked Erin, riding close. Her eyes burned with a fierce flame, and her long rapier was red with blood.
“We’ll let the spearmen pillage the camp, while I’ll lead the archers past the camp to come on Tuorel’s army from the rear.
We’ve got to draw some of the pressure away from the Diemans.”
He struck his fist against his armored thigh. “Damn! We need more time!”
“The militiamen are recovering as fast as they can. You’re almost ready to advance again.”
“Haelyn help us if Tuorel’s had time to break the Diemans,” Gaelin said. He pulled his gaze away from the battle and met her eyes. A chill of apprehension seized his heart – there was so much that could still go wrong. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Erin, I beg you: Stay here, in the castle.
The battle ahead of us is going to make the last fight look like a friendly tavern scrap. I want to know you’re safe.”
To his surprise, she nodded soberly. “All right. I don’t want to distract you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’ll try,” he said, hoping that his visored helm would conceal the lie. Somehow, he doubted Tuorel would allow him the luxury of caution.