In a single day, Shieldhaven was transformed from a quaint highland court to a bristling fortress. On the Mhor’s orders, the castle was readied for any attack. The guard was doubled at all posts, the mighty gates were closed and the portcullis lowered, heavy wooden shutters were fitted to the higher windows, and bolts, arrows, stones, and oil were laid by the embrasures and murder holes. More than half of Shieldhaven’s lords and courtiers were gone. Some had simply left for safer lands, but most of those missing had returned to their manors and estates to raise the soldiers they owed the Mhor in time of war. Between Mhoried’s mobilization and the abrupt departure of the court, Shieldhaven seemed empty and hostile.
The Mhor strode along the battlements, examining the castle’s preparations. In truth, he’d left the defense of Shieldhaven itself to his lieutenants and captains. They knew everything there was to know about defending a castle, and the Mhor trusted them implicitly. As far as he could tell, they had overlooked nothing. The only question remaining was how many troops he’d leave to hold the fortress.
At one of the minor turrets on the eastern wall, Mhor Daeric found Tiery waiting for him, bundled in a heavy cloak against the unnaturally cold weather. Beside him stood a tall, lean man with a square face and a short, iron-gray beard – Lord Baesil Ceried, the commander of Mhoried’s armies. Baesil held the rank of count, which meant he belonged to the highest tier of nobility subject to the Mhor’s rule. Each count held one of Mhoried’s ten provinces in the Mhor’s name. Many nobles accumulated titles and honorary positions to go with their hereditary lands, but Baesil had earned the right to lead Mhoried’s army through years of campaigning. While Mhor Daeric was uncertain of several of his counts, he considered Baesil Ceried and his county of Byrnnor to be unshakable.
Baesil was armored in light half-plate, and wore a black, knee-length surcoat over his arms, embroidered with the falcon of Mhoried. Unlike many high officers, Baesil didn’t pretend to any great skill at hand-to-hand fighting. He often said that he fought and won with his wits, not his sword. Both men bowed as the Mhor approached. “Good day, my lord,” said Tiery.
“Gentlemen,” the Mhor replied. “There is news?”
Baesil nodded, his face sour. “Ill news, my lord Mhor. The northlands are worse off than we had hoped. We’ve just received word that Markazor’s hordes forced a crossing of the upper Maesil in Marloer’s Gap, scattering Lord Ghaele’s forces. Kraith has sent every goblin from the Sielwode to the Stonecrowns against us.”
The Mhor kept his face calm, but his stomach turned. This was almost the worst news imaginable. Dealing with Ghoere’s army would have been difficult enough, but if Markazor had launched an invasion at the same time… for a moment, he teetered somewhere between rage, panic, and terror. He gripped the battlements and looked out over the deceptively peaceful countryside. “I may have worse news than that,” he said after a moment. “It seems that Dhalsiel, Maesilar, and Balteruine refuse to answer the muster.”
“Traitorous dogs,” Baesil growled. “Maesilar and Balteruine I expected, but what can Dhalsiel gain from sitting on his arse? Markazor’s a stone’s throw from his gates.”
“He claims that he must keep his soldiers near at hand to guard his lands.” Daeric glanced at Baesil. “Can we stand against Kraith and Tuorel without our full strength? Do we have a chance?”
“It’s bad, my lord,” Baesil said softly. “Ghoere and Markazor have caught us between the hammer and the anvil. This is no coincidence – they planned this as a joint attack. And I suspect Tuorel’s been dealing with Count Maesilar for months, trying to find his price.”
“ Trust Tuorel to bargain with goblins,” added Tiery wearily.
“We can’t fight the full strength of Markazor and Ghoere at the same time,” the Mhor said flatly. “One or the other, we could meet and stand against. Baesil? What’s your opinion?”
The general thought for a long time, weighing his words.
“You’ll have to let the northlands burn,” he finally said.
“Ghoere’s army is the greater threat, and they menace the lands that we can’t afford to lose. If we defeat Tuorel, Maesilar might waver, since he won’t want to face you without his master’s help. Balteruine will follow where Maesilar leads.
Besides, we’ve already got forces responding to the fall of Riumache.
Calling them back to send them north will take too much time.”
“At least they’re at opposite ends of the country,” Tiery observed.
“We won’t have to worry about facing both armies at the same time.”
The Mhor rubbed his hands over his face and drew in a long breath. The bitter air stung his nose and throat, but the pain served to sharpen his attention. He hadn’t slept since the reports of Ghoere’s invasion had first arrived, a day and a half ago. Tuorel had taken Riumache by crossing the Maesil more quickly than any army in history. “How’d the Maesil freeze?” he wondered aloud. “I’ve seen ice floes in plenty of winters, but nothing an army could risk.” Neither of his advisors could offer any insight.
“Your orders, my lord?” Baesil prompted.
“March south and engage Tuorel,” the Mhor said. “Drive him back across the Maesil if you can, but I’ll settle for bottling up his army in Riumache. Also, detach one company of Knights Guardian for duty in the north. I want them to lead the levies the highlanders raise against the goblins. If we have to give ground to Kraith to gain time, do it – I just want his advance slowed, so that the people in his path have a chance to flee their homes and muster their militias.”
“Very well,” Baesil said, bowing. “I’ll send the orders immediately.”
He started to leave, and then paused. “I’ll set out at first light tomorrow, my lord. I need to be with the army going against Ghoere.“
“Do so. I will follow in a day.” The Mhor watched Baesil stride off across the wall, helmet tucked under his arm. The general was already calling for his captains and lieutenants and shouting orders. Daeric turned to Tiery and took him by the arm. “Come, walk with me a moment,” he said. They passed through the turret and crossed another section of battlements.
When they were safely out of earshot on the open battlements, he stopped and said, “Tiery, I’ll need help to defeat this invasion. Baesil will try his best, but we’re too badly outnumbered. Arrange for couriers to be sent to Alamie, Diemed, and Roesone.”
“Will any of them help us?”
The Mhor sighed. “Daen Roesone’s not strong enough to risk war with Ghoere, not unless Diemed guarantees his borders, and I don’t think Vandiel will do that. Alamie is obsessed with Tuornen, and Diemed won’t want to act alone against Ghoere. I doubt any of them will come to our aid.”
“At least you have a claim of kinship with Vandiel of Diemed. He may be willing to support you.”
“We didn’t help him against Roesone.” Mhor Daeric ran his fingers through his hair. “Also, send for Bannier. His magic may speed our messages or slow our enemies.”
“Very well, my lord,” Tiery said. He hesitated, watching the Mhor. “You are worried about Gaelin?”
Daeric spared him a single hard look. “Someone seems to be trying to kill my sons. Of course I’m worried.”
“He had sense enough to send word immediately,” Tiery said. “Do you think that Lady Tenarien was able to dispatch any of her men to meet him before she was invested by Ghoere’s army?”
The Mhor snorted. “Who knows? She may have received the message in time, or it may have been too late.”
Sensing his anger, Tiery nodded. “I’ll see to those messages.”
He turned and hurried away, leaning on a cane.
The Mhor watched him leave, his mind already churning with the next questions he’d have to address. Before he could make any decisions, a wave of exhaustion washed over him.
He found his heart pounding as he leaned against the crenelated wall. I need to sleep, he realized, or I’ll be no good to anyone.
Still, he hesitated before going inside. The battlement was cold and lonely, but it was a good place to think. He’d leave Thendiere to manage the court, since his oldest son’s leg was still not sufficiently healed for hard campaigning. The arrangement would also keep Mhoried’s heir in relative safety while Daeric rode against Ghoere in the south. Now, with warfare in the northlands as well, he needed Gaelin to lead the fight against the goblins.
Bowing his head, the Mhor breathed a silent prayer for Gaelin’s swift and safe return.
In one corner of Bannier’s conjuring chamber there stood a strange shadow that never disappeared entirely, no matter how the dim sunlight or the guttering oil lamps illuminated the cluttered chamber. Even as the Mhor’s guardsmen hammered their sword hilts against the door to the wizard’s tower, the shadow rippled and suddenly yawned deeper and colder. The dying red sunlight faded into umber gloom, disappearing into the hungry darkness, and in silence a lean, robed form appeared and stepped from the shadow. Tired and cold, Bannier closed the portal, and the dark door was only a shadow again.
The wizard’s entire frame trembled in exhaustion, and he could no longer feel his hands and feet from a pervasive, bone-numbing cold. While the Shadow World was never a safe or certain passage, even in the best of times, it did allow those who knew its twisted paths to travel at amazing speeds.
In the span of a day, Bannier had walked from the shores of the Maesil to his tower in Shieldhaven. It had taken a decade for the wizard to learn how to navigate the regions of the Shadow World that touched on his dark doorway in Shield- haven. Only the most skilled of sorcerers – and the halflings, who were somehow connected with the Shadow World – matched Bannier’s knowledge.
From below, the pounding on his door resumed. Bannier frowned in distaste. If the fools tried to break it down, they’d regret it, but deaths of a magical nature certainly wouldn’t endear him to the Mhor, who had probably been ransacking the castle looking for him since word of the invasion arrived.
Bannier needed the Mhor’s trust for a few hours more. Before answering the door, however, he took a small vial from a locked cabinet and downed the contents. The elixir warmed and refreshed him, dispelling his exhaustion and restoring vitality to his palsied limbs.
With a deep breath, Bannier circled down the stairs to his sitting room. He could hear the voices of the guards outside, debating whether they should seek the Mhor’s permission to break down the wizard’s door. “Can’t have that,” he muttered to himself. Striding across the room, he threw open the bolts, disarmed the magical traps with a word, and opened the door.
Four of Shieldhaven’s guards stood outside, led by a young officer. The wizard’s sudden appearance startled them all, and the soldiers recoiled a step. “Yes?” Bannier asked confidently.
“How may I be of service to you, lieutenant?”
The officer exchanged a wary glance with the sergeant of the guard, and then considered Bannier with an openly suspicious look. “Begging your pardon, Lord Bannier, but the Mhor requests your presence immediately.”
“Of course. Please, lead the way.”
Without a word, the officer turned and started off, the soldiers flanking Bannier to either side. There was a time, years ago, when Shieldhaven’s guards and servants had been more open and friendly, Bannier thought. It seemed to him that he’d been greeted with smiles and pleasant words in the days before he expanded his research. Were the people he’d known before gone, or had they grown resentful of his presence?
Whatever the reason, the black looks he received as they headed for the Mhor’s study made it easier for Bannier to contemplate the bargain he had made. People were ephemeral, but power – magical power, not the trappings of office or rule – that was a much more tangible comfort.
They arrived at the mahogany-panelled royal quarters in short order. The wizard was surprised to see a pair of fully armored guards standing before the door, swords bared. It seemed the Mhor was taking few chances. Inside, he found Mhor Daeric leaning over a map of Mhoried, with his first son, Prince Thendiere, by his side, and old Tiery as well. The Mhor glanced up, and his expression hardened. “Bannier,” he said. “We’ve sorely missed your counsel the past two days. I assume you’ve heard of Ghoere’s attack?”
Bannier chose his words carefully. “Indeed I have, my lord.
I have just returned from the Maesil.” When he put his mind to it, the Mhor possessed an uncanny ability to discern the truth of a person’s words. It was one of the signs of the Mhoried blood, a gift inherited from his ancestors. With a grimace, Bannier suppressed a quick flash of jealousy that coiled through his heart. He would have the Mhorieds’ power soon enough.
The Mhor’s brow furrowed at Bannier’s words and expression.
“What were you doing there?”
“Ghoere’s army had magical aid in crossing the Maesil,”
Bannier said. “You must have noted the unnatural cold we’ve had this spring. Sorcery froze the river, and Tuorel crossed on foot.”
“That confirms our reports,” said Thendiere. He was a tall, thin man of about thirty. He had the Mhor’s height but his mother’s slightness of build. Thendiere’s face was guarded, with a cautious intelligence glinting in his eyes. He leaned heavily on a thick wooden cane, and as he shifted position Bannier noted that his right leg was immobilized by a splint under his loose-fitting breeches. “I didn’t think that Tuorel commanded the allegiance of a wizard powerful enough to cast such a spell. There can’t be more than a handful in all Anuire with that much strength.”
Bannier bowed his head. “You are correct, Prince Thendiere. I know the wizard called the Sword Mage aided Tuorel in his war against Elinie. He often visits Ghoere’s court.”
The Mhor paced away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Despite the fatigue of nearly two days of meetings, councils of war, diplomatic messages, and other endless tasks, he still presented an appearance of calm dignity and strength. Even his gray tunic was carefully pressed. He stopped by the window, gazing out over the snow-capped battlements of the castle. “Bannier, we have been allies for thirteen years now,” he said quietly. “I have provided you with wealth, comfort, and prestige in exchange for your invaluable advice and assistance in magical matters. I know few wizards as competent as you. If the Sword Mage is using his sorcery to aid Ghoere’s armies, I must have your skills to defend my own forces.”
“You sound as though you doubt me, my lord.”
Mhor Daeric looked over his shoulder, one eye fixing the wizard where he stood. “Bannier, you left without notice at a time when I desperately needed your counsel. As it turns out, you probably did exactly what I would have wanted of you in exploring Tuorel’s method of invasion, but the point remains that I had no idea where you were. In fact, in recent years I’ve seen less and less of you. I know you’re no liegeman of mine, but I expect some degree of loyalty from you.”
“My studies have consumed much of my time,” Bannier answered, truthfully enough. “And, to be honest, with Mhoried at peace there’s been little for me to advise you about. Dealing with Markazor’s raids or Alamie’s troubles wouldn’t have been the best use of my time.”
The Mhor held his eye for a long moment, studying Bannier’s face. Despite himself, Bannier grew uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally, the Mhor looked away, and Bannier began to relax. Then Tiery spoke up from the corner of the room. “How did you know to go to the Maesil?”
Bannier was not expecting the question. “What?”
“We received word of the invasion yesterday, but no one has seen you for days. You’ve been to the Maesil and back already?”
“I have my own sources of information,” Bannier replied.
“I left when I suspected trouble.”
“And you didn’t see fit to warn us before you left?”
“They were only suspicions, unconfirmed. I had only the merest indication of sorcery at work and thought to investigate.
I didn’t know it was a prelude to war.” Bannier restrained a scowl. Tiery’s questioning was placing him in danger. Even now, the Mhor contemplated him with renewed interest.
“That might have been a reasonable assumption,” the Mhor said. He gave Bannier one more hard look. “Well, it’s in the past now. Tell me, Bannier, can you aid us in driving Ghoere back across the river? If the Sword Mage is helping him, can you defend us?”
Bannier took up a cautious pacing, circling the room as he pretended to study the map. “I believe so,” he said after a suitable length of time. “But I will need a day or two to consider my options.”
The Mhor seemed to hope for something more substantial, but he knew magic of the sort that could affect the course of a war was dangerous and hard to come by. “Very well, then,” he said. “I plan to ride for Riumache tomorrow, but if you think you might have some answers for me by tomorrow evening, I will delay my departure.”
“Please, proceed as you have planned,” Bannier said. “I can always contact you if I think of something.” He feigned a yawn. “My lord, my journey was quite tiring, and I have much work to do. Would you please excuse me?”
The Mhor nodded. With a shallow bow, Bannier took his leave. The guards who had escorted him to the Mhor’s quarters had left already; a bit of good fortune, since it indicated he wasn’t under any serious suspicion. He made a conscious effort to suppress the spring in his step as he left.
Bannier first headed back toward his tower, threading his way through the great hall, taking care to be seen by a number of people. Then he abruptly changed his heading and turned to a set of disused stairs that led into the castle’s lower levels. Shieldhaven’s storerooms, wells, and cellars were carved into the heart of the rocky tor on which it rested. Vault after vault lay beneath the Mhor’s halls. Only a few were in use, and Bannier avoided these as he descended into the belly of the fortress.
In a few minutes, he found the room he had marked. It was an old wine cellar, long and low, most of its tuns long since removed.
Exits on opposite sides of the chamber led up to the cellars of the gatehouse and the keep itself. Bannier checked to make certain no one was within earshot and satisfied himself that he was unobserved.
Crossing the chamber, Bannier examined the few remaining tuns and found the one for which he was looking. He opened it with a hidden catch. Inside lay a small satchel of canvas.
From the satchel, Bannier retrieved a dozen small pots of paint, along with an assortment of brushes. He selected a bare stretch of wall in the center of the room and quickly wiped it free of cobwebs and dust with the sleeve of his robe. Then, humming a strange and discordant melody, he began to create a pattern on the wall. First he drew a man-high circle of silvered paint and a second circle a handspan outside that one. Then, using first one paint and then another, he began to mark runes and diagrams around the ring. Some required him to chant spells of warding or passage softly under his breath; others he simply marked with rapid precision.
It took hours of exacting work to finish the gate’s border and to speak the words that brought it to life. The last few words left him so weak that he could not stand; an enchantment of this power was never easy, and even more difficult considering the effort he had expended earlier. Somehow, he found the force of will to speak the last syllable.
A thin, blue aura sprang into being around the gateway, shimmering and dancing. The wall enclosed by the ring seemed to fade or vanish, and in its place a portal of swirling darkness and streaming azure fire opened. The air of the old cellar crackled with energy, and Bannier’s breath was sucked away by the force of the air rushing past. He scrambled farther away, dragging himself to his feet by the row of great tuns opposite the gate.
With a flash of light, a man in armor appeared. He stood, disoriented for a moment, and then he spied Bannier and strode over to him. Before he reached the wizard, the gate flashed again, and another man – a common soldier – stood in the archway. The armored man reached Bannier, and with one gauntleted hand he raised his visor. Baron Noered Tuorel grinned at Bannier. “Well met, master wizard!” he said, speaking loudly to carry over the chaos of the gateway. “You were only a quarter-hour late.”
“That door leads to the gatehouse,” Bannier said, pointing.
“The other leads to the keep. You know where the Mhor’s chambers are?”
Tuorel nodded. “Baehemon’s men mapped the castle when he visited. They’ll be able to lead us. How long can you keep the gate open? I’ve five hundred men to bring through.”
“If they move smartly, I’ll hold it for them all,” Bannier answered. Tuorel grinned again, and then wheeled about to give orders to the Ghoeran soldiers who were massing in the vault. With grim determination, Bannier concentrated on maintaining the gate to the end of his strength.
The small hours of the morning found the Mhor Daeric pacing restlessly in his chambers. In recent years, the nights had held less and less sleep for him; some would have said the cares of ruling a kingdom were wearing him down, but Daeric knew it was a deepening sense of loneliness. He missed his wife terribly, even after all these years. “Aesele, I could use your strength now,” he murmured. “I’ve a long, hard labor before me, and I’m feeling my years tonight.”
Daeric paused in front of the great shuttered window that looked out over the city of Bevaldruor, a glass of brandy in his hand. In the warm darkness of the chamber, he almost imagined he could hear her light footfalls. He cocked his head, listening, but decided his ears had been playing tricks on him. He sipped the liquor, hoping to calm his racing mind and find some semblance of rest before joining his army in the field on the morrow. Instead of drowsiness the brandy brought him a supernatural clarity of thought. With a sigh, he set down the empty glass and peered out into the darkness.
His chamber overlooked the castle’s courtyard, the gatehouse, and the fields beyond.
Shadows flitted along the battlements, and one of the lantern lights of the gatehouse flickered and went out. Daeric frowned. He’d almost thought he had seen armed men on the battlements, moving stealthily toward the gates. He extinguished his own light, an oil lamp, and stepped back to the window, using the shutter for concealment. As his eyes attuned themselves to the darkness, he searched the battlements for signs of movement.
There! There it was again. Squinting, Daeric could make out a half-dozen forms, now gathered before an iron-plated door that led from the open battlements into the castle itself.
Light glinted from the edges of bared swords and knives. As the band of intruders quietly opened the door, dim lantern light flooded the battlements for a moment, and Daeric caught a glimpse of red and blue livery. He gasped and recoiled from the window. Ghoerans here? But how?
After he recovered from his momentary shock, Daeric darted across the room and opened the door leading to the hall. Two of the castellan’s guards stood there in full arms and armor, assigned to protect him from a possible assassination attempt. Both clattered to attention in panic when he threw the door open – it had been a long and quiet watch until now.
The senior of the two, a battle-tempered sergeant, recovered first. “My lord Mhor?” he said. “Is there anything you need, sir?”
“Ghoerans have infiltrated Shieldhaven,” Daeric said.
“Sergeant, stay here with me. Trooper, I want you to rouse the guard captain immediately and sound the alarm.”
Both guards stared at him blankly for a moment. Daeric realized they thought he’d taken leave of his senses. “I saw them on the battlements,” he said. “Now, get moving! I have no idea how many may be inside already.”
“Sir! At once, sir,” the other guard said. With a worried glance at his partner, he sprinted off down the hall, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Guards! Enemies in the castle! Awake!”
Daeric seized the other man by the shoulder. “I can only guess that Tuorel’s men are here to kill Thendiere and me,” he said. “I’ll assume they know where to find our chambers. Get my son and daughters, and bring them here. I’ll be ready in a moment.” The sergeant nodded and hurried off to pound on Thendiere’s door. Daeric stepped back inside his chambers and quickly threw on the first tunic he could find. As he dressed, his eye fell on an old sword hanging above the mantle.
It was an ancient heirloom of the family; he snatched it from the wall and thrust the blade through his belt before stepping back into the hall.
In the thirty or forty heartbeats it had taken him to get dressed, the sergeant had literally dragged Thendiere and his sisters Liesele and Ilwyn from their respective rooms. All three had sense enough to keep quiet, although Ilwyn was shaking with fright. “What’s happening, Father?” she asked in a fraying voice.
“Ghoere’s men are in the castle. Come on – they’ll be trying to reach the royal quarters, and we must move.” With the sergeant beside him, Daeric turned down a servant’s passage and headed for the great hall. There were guardposts and visiting knights and courtiers there; with any luck, they’d find enough swordarms to organize a defense of the castle. The passage led to a tight staircase that spiraled down to the floor of the hall. Daeric allowed the sergeant to lead, while Thendiere brought up the rear, hefting his heavy cane as a weapon.
At the bottom of the stair, an old oaken door opened into the hall. The sergeant set his hand on the latch, but the Mhor caught his arm. “Carefully,” he said. The sergeant glanced at him and nodded, edging the door open a few inches so Daeric could see the room beyond.
A hundred or more Ghoeran soldiers stood in silence in Shieldhaven’s hall. A score of Mhorien guards, servants, and courtiers sat on the floor, hands on their heads, under the watchful eyes of Ghoerans detailed to watch over the prisoners.
Scattered around the hall, there were a handful of bodies sprawled limply on the floor – guardsmen who had tried to fight for the hall, along with a Ghoeran or two. The Mhor studied the disciplined ranks of enemy soldiers standing in his own hall, astounded at their numbers. How in the world did that many men get inside without being seen? he thought. What manner of treachery was this? Carefully, he pulled the door shut again, hoping no one had spotted them.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Thendiere said.
“There must be a hundred Ghoerans in the hall,” the Mhor replied. “How many more are elsewhere in the castle? For that matter, how many guardsmen do we have to lead against them?”
“My lord, there were one hundred and thirty of us on the duty roster tonight,” the sergeant replied. “That’s enough to man the gatehouse, the towers, and the battlements against an assault.”
Mhor Daeric ground his teeth. “Apparently not.” He looked around in the dark passageway, thinking. Whatever they did, they couldn’t remain where they were for long. He considered the men he’d seen on the battlements and in the hall. “By my guess, the garrison’s outnumbered two to one, or worse, and the enemy’s seized the castle already,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we can retake the castle with the guards that are left. Clearly, our enemy knows us quite well, and they’ve made certain that we wouldn’t be able to fight back.”
The Mhor paused, meeting the eyes of his children. It occurred to him that they were children no longer, but men and women with strengths and capabilities he could no longer measure. “Fighting for Shieldhaven is out of the question, and surrender strikes me as unacceptable. Our only remaining alternative is flight. If Tuorel takes our castle but we slip through his fingers, we’ll call this night a stalemate.”
“I hate the thought of abandoning Shieldhaven without a fight,” Thendiere said.
The Mhor forced a shrug. “It’s already happened, whether we like it or not. Now, let’s see if they’ve thought to guard the old sally port under Bannier’s tower.” They backtracked down the passage and then chose a broad hallway running through a portion of the castle reserved for visiting nobles.
Daeric would have liked to find a less well-traveled route, but unfortunately none headed the way they wanted to go. They had almost reached the bend at the end of the corridor when four Ghoeran guards abruptly turned the corner in front of them. Without hesitation, the Mhor threw himself forward, slashing at the lead man – these guards stood between them and escape. The guard sergeant and Thendiere followed a moment later.
“Careful, lads!” cried one of the Ghoerans. “The old one’s the Mhor! Don’t kill him!” Daeric’s opponent was an excellent swordsman who parried his blows while looking for a chance to disarm him. Beside him, the sergeant felled his man with a sturdy thrust to the chest, but then spun to the ground a moment later as a Ghoeran slashed his face open. Liesele stooped and picked up the sergeant’s sword, swinging it recklessly with both hands as she flailed away at the fellow who’d felled the sergeant.
Daeric’s arm was growing tired already, and a dozen aches and protests were announcing themselves throughout his body. He snarled in frustration – the fight was noisy and was costing them time they didn’t have. Thendiere hopped about awkwardly, barely defending himself with his cane, and lured his opponent into reach of Daeric’s sword. The Mhor quickly turned from his opponent and stabbed Thendiere’s foe under the arm. The man coughed and staggered back a few steps before falling. Then the man he’d been fighting stepped close and landed a solid punch on the side of his head with his sword hilt. Daeric’s world turned upside down and he reeled to the floor, stars flashing across his vision.
Daeric’s arms and legs refused to work. Clumsily, he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He realized that it had suddenly become quiet; the clang of sword on sword was gone. Raising his head, he saw Liesele sliding down the wall, her face open with astonishment as her hands clutched at a spreading stain of blood in the center of her stomach. Her lips were blue and her face was white with shock. She tried to say something, but he couldn’t hear it for the ringing in his ears.
He was still watching her when her eyes went blank and she slumped over on the floor.
“Liesele,” he moaned. With a cry of rage, he started to rise.
As he looked around, he saw Thendiere standing by the wall, holding a maimed hand. The prince’s cane and two of his fingers lay on the floor, but his pain was forgotten as he stared at his sister’s body. Ilwyn was huddled a few steps farther back, petrified with terror. The remaining two Ghoerans were down as well, the leader with Liesele’s sword buried in his chest. The Mhor let his eyes close for a long moment, shutting out the sight.
“Mhor Daeric.”
Daeric looked up again. At the end of the hall, a dozen more Ghoeran soldiers stood, waiting. In front, a man in black armor with a helm worked to resemble a wolf’s head watched him. Although his head still swam, Daeric somehow came to his feet, although he weaved drunkenly. A lean, brown figure stood beside the wolf-knight. Bannier looked on, his eyes unreadable. “Prince Thendiere, Princess Ilwyn, my lord Mhor,” he said flatly. “Please, do not exert yourselves.
The sally port is guarded.”
His mind drifting in and out of focus, Daeric forced himself to respond. “You betrayed me. I knew you lied when Tiery asked you what you had been doing. Tell me, was Ghoere’s invasion your work?” He noticed he had blood in his mouth, and his tongue felt thick. “Bannier – why?”
The wizard merely looked away. Beside him, the armored man stepped forward and raised his wolf-visor. Baron Noered Tuorel’s cruel features were fixed in bloodthirsty delight.
“I have wondered why, as well,” he said. “But when Bannier offered to deliver Shieldhaven into my hands, I decided that his reasons meant nothing to me.” His eyes flicked past Daeric to the human wreckage at the end of the hall. “An admirable performance, my lord Mhor, besting four of my soldiers.”
He strode forward, his soldiers following with readied weapons. His eyes fell to Liesele’s body, slumped on the floor.
Tuorel frowned in distaste. “Just as well you defeated them,” he added. “I would have had them executed for killing your daughter.”
“Burn in Azrai’s hells,” Daeric said weakly. He looked past Tuorel to Bannier. “You, too, Bannier. I thought you were my friend.”
The wizard’s face tightened. He raised his hands and muttered some unintelligible phrase or command, and suddenly white light flashed from his fingertips. Daeric felt his knees buckling, but he lost consciousness before he hit the floor.