Bannier stormed through the halls of Shieldhaven, his black cloak trailing behind him. His customary reserve was gone, and raw fury contorted his face. Dawn was an hour away, but Ghoere’s soldiers crowded the passageways. The entire fortress had been roused by the fighting and alarms, and parties of armed Ghoerans still roamed the castle, seeking spies or collaborators who might have aided the Mhor’s escape attempt.
The wizard swept around a corner and came to the door leading to the Mhor’s audience hall. Noered Tuorel had claimed the chamber as his own headquarters and oversaw the occupation of Shieldhaven and the progress of the war from the room. Half a dozen of Tuorel’s finest guards stood before the door. “Out of my way!” Bannier hissed.
The lieutenant sketched a shallow bow. “The Baron can see you now,” he said. Bannier strode forward and roughly shouldered the man aside, ignoring the murderous looks Tuorel’s guards shot at his back. Inside, he found Tuorel standing beside a table of rich, ancient wood, a parchment map of Mhoried pinioned to its surface by sturdy knives. Officers of the baron’s army were gathered there.
Tuorel glanced up, his face betraying no annoyance at the interruption. “Well, Bannier, I see that you survived your encounter with the Mhor without injury. Quite remarkable, considering the fall.” His smile vanished and a hard look came into his eyes. “What do you want with me this morning?”
“Do you have any idea what your bungling cost me today?” Bannier said in a loud voice. The officers fell silent.
Some took a step or two back, fingering the hilts of their swords. “The Mhor and his son lie dead, you idiot! All we have to show for it is one frightened girl, and she’s of absolutely no value to us as long as Gaelin remains free!”
Tuorel’s face tightened. “I don’t care for your tone of voice,” he said. “Remember your manners, Bannier.”
“And you remember that we had a bargain, Tuorel! The Mhor was to be delivered to my hands!” Bannier took a step forward, sweeping his staff over the table with a two-handed swing. The map tore in half, the wooden markers flying across the room. “All this is meaningless now!”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” Tuorel snapped. “Instead of running around screaming like a child, I’m planning to take this wretched land with or without the Mhoried line. It may be long, and difficult, and bloody, but if I have to put half of Mhoried to the sword to rule the other half, I can and I will.
Now, make yourself useful, or get out of my way! I’ll not be threatened, wizard.”
“Is this how you keep your word, Tuorel?”
“Bannier, as I recall, Thendiere died by your hand, and the Mhor met his death while locked in hand-to-hand battle with you. If you find the Mhorieds are dying too quickly, perhaps you should stop killing them.”
The wizard’s eyes narrowed. “Strange, isn’t it? I help you to take Shieldhaven, fulfilling my part of the bargain, but before you live up to your end, the Mhor and his son meet their deaths. An unfortunate coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’ve had them for three days and done nothing with them.”
Bannier exploded. “Because I need all the Mhorieds, you dolt!”
“For what? You must be blooded, or you could not wield the sorcery I have seen you employ. And you have an impressive command of the magical arts. How much more can you want?”
“I have a debt to pay,” Bannier hissed. “And I fulfill my obligations, no matter what it takes. You would be wise to do the same.”
Tuorel folded his arms in front of his armored chest and regarded the wizard evenly. “If you must take the bloodline of the Mhorieds, you need only slay the last living Mhoried.
There are two left now: Princess Ilwyn, here in Shieldhaven, and Prince Gaelin. Your designs haven’t been thwarted, Bannier, merely delayed. For that matter, I can still invest myself as king of this miserable land. I couldn’t coerce the Mhor into handing me the kingdom, but I may break Gaelin.”
Bannier stopped his pacing to glare at the baron. “He’s mine, Tuorel. I’ve already seen how your prisoners fare.”
Tuorel’s eyes blazed, but he spoke quietly. “Then go get him yourself. Clearly, you’ve no further use for my cavalry. I’ll find more pressing business for those soldiers, I think. Good luck in your search for the prince.” He turned away deliberately, taking up the study of a map hanging on the wall.
Bannier fumed in silence. Finally he scowled and said, “You said Gaelin could hold the key to a quick victory, Tuorel.
How long will it take you to reduce Mhoried town by town?”
The baron didn’t turn, but he shrugged in his heavy armor.
“A few months, I would think.”
“And what will Mhoried be worth to you, if you have to rule every square foot of it with a soldier? Will the Mhoriens march under your banner, or murder your soldiers in the dark of night?”
“I’ll not argue the point, Bannier. The crown is no mere symbol – if I wrest the right to rule from Gaelin, my victory is complete.”
“Then you’ll agree that it suits both our purposes to capture the prince as swiftly as possible.”
Tuorel eyed the wizard contemptuously. “Considering the way you’ve threatened me, I’m not sure how much longer I should trust you. But, for the sake of argument: Yes, I agree Gaelin must be captured. Do you have any suggestions?”
Bannier smiled, a serpentine expression that showed no hint of warmth. “Sooner or later, the prince will surface. I know Gaelin; he won’t stay away from Mhoried, not if he thinks the land is in danger. Give him time to get his feet under him, and he may even claim the Mhor’s seat and stand against you, Tuorel.”
“That would be unacceptable. It will take long enough to pacify this land without a figure like the Mhor’s son for the Mhoriens to rally around. Even if he’s an idiot, he’ll be dangerous to me.”
“Make certain Gaelin isn’t killed, baron,” Bannier said quickly. “Remember our bargain – do not deny me the prince.
Believe me, it’s in your best interest to make certain I remain your ally. You can’t even guess at the resources I command.”
The wizard whirled in a flutter of night-black cloak and strode away, leaving a noticeable chill lingering in the air.
Ignoring hostile glares from the Ghoeran lords and officers he encountered, Bannier stormed back to his tower. He passed the wards that guarded his chambers and barred the door behind him. Pacing his chamber absently, he considered his options. After a moment’s thought, he selected a book of divinations from the shelf and paged through until he found the spell he wanted. “It will do,” he murmured. He sat down to study the spell’s cryptic symbology.
By sunrise, he was ready to begin. The first rays of dawn streamed into Bannier’s conjuring chamber, striking fiery gleams from a spiral of argent runes inlaid in the floor of the room. The wizard circled the design, pausing to speak a phrase or two of a forgotten language or throw a pinch of metallic powder into the air. In the center of the design stood a black bowl, filled with a dark liquid. Reading from a book cradled in his left arm, Bannier circled the bowl one last time, and spoke the spell’s final word. Gleaming silver energy coalesced around the spiraling runes, swirling toward the center where the bowl waited.
Bannier set down his tome of spells, and hurried over to peer into the dark pool within the bowl. Spells of seeking and spying did not come easily to him. This enchantment was the most potent scrying-spell he knew. Inside the bowl, the dark fluid rippled strangely, and its surface suddenly became a single sheet of gleaming silver.
The wizard rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, and then gazed into the reflective surface. In his mind’s eye, he conjured an image of Gaelin as he had last seen him – a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark hair marked by the white streak of the Mhoried blood. As his mind brought the image to life, an identical image appeared in the pool before his eyes. The face was a little more drawn and unkempt, and the image of the pool showed Gaelin saddling his horse, preparing for the day’s journey. Behind the prince, Bannier spied the sparkle of water. He recognized the Stonebyrn’s mighty flow. He returns to Mhoried already! the wizard thought.
With a feral grin, Bannier let the spell lapse and stepped away from the silver basin. “So, you’re coming to me, are you?” he said quietly. “You’ll save me a great deal of trouble, Gaelin. Now, how do I set the hook?” Bannier descended into the darkness of his chambers to prepare for Gaelin’s return.
The dawn soon cleared the mists from the Stonebyrn, burning the fog away within an hour of sunrise. Gaelin felt more alert and alive than he could ever remember; he wondered if some new legacy of the Mhoried bloodline was now emerging, or if it was nothing more than exhaustion and delirium that lied to his senses. Something in his perception, in his mind, was different this morning – he knew that much. The air seemed crisper, the sounds and sights registering in his eyes and ears with preternatural clarity.
When the fog cleared, Madislav sent two scouts back across the river. They landed and met with some of the townspeople, then returned almost immediately. “I’m sorry, my lord, but neither our men nor Ghoere’s hold the town now,” they reported.
“The townsfolk say that Captain Maesan was forced to flee, but the Ghoerans rode off soon afterward. ”
“They may have been worried that the Alamiens would come after them,” said the first sergeant of the guards, a weather-beaten old war-hound named Toere. With Maesan out of reach, he commanded the remnants of Gaelin’s escort.
“Maesan might be trying for the next landing,” Gaelin said. “Failing that, he could probably swim the horses across the river to Winoene. Either way, we’d only be guessing if we tried to meet up with him again.” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Sergeant, give the order to mount up.”
In a few minutes, they were on their way again. For the first time in a week or more, the weather was good; the temperatures were cool, but not unseasonable, and the rains of the last few days were gone. The guards formed a close cordon around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide, while Madislav scouted ahead. The gentle, rolling hills and broad farmlands of Cwlldon were a welcome sight for Gaelin. For a brief moment, he could pretend that all was well in Mhoried.
They followed a worn cart track leading away from the ferry landing and quickly found themselves on the Old Stoneway, an ancient road that followed the Stonebyrn’s path from Riumache all the way through Torien’s Watch to the passes of the Stonecrowns. “Let’s head south,” Gaelin said.
“If I remember right, the Cwlldon Pike meets this road about ten miles down the Stoneway. I don’t know this area well enough to head cross-country.”
“The pike leads to Shieldhaven?” Erin asked.
Gaelin nodded. “It’s the quickest way from here.”
“What do you expect to find there?”
Gaelin gave her a helpless look. “How should I know?
Once I get home, maybe I can decide what to do.” He looked away, studying the road. Lord Anduine, Count Baesil, Tiery… someone at Shieldhaven would be able to tell him what he should do next. Erin watched him, but she kept her opinions to herself.
To keep up a fast pace, the party alternated between easy canters and walking. After an hour, they spied a gray smudge in the sky to the south. Eventually, they made out a halfdozen or more twisting pillars of smoke.
“There has been fighting,” Madislav observed. “We are maybe riding into trouble, no?”
“Those are homes and farms burning.” Gaelin frowned.
“Better keep our scouts on their toes.”
“I will check on them,” Madislav said. He spurred his horse and rode ahead, vanishing over the next rise.
The pillars of smoke drew Gaelin’s eye like an accusation.
Can I live up to this burden? he thought. I know nothing of ruling. He dropped his eyes as he considered what had happened.
His mind kept returning to one thought: Why did this have to fall to me?
He didn’t notice Erin riding closer until she reached out to touch his shoulder. Startled, he straightened and met her eyes.
Her red hair gleamed in the sun, wreathing her head in a copper halo. “Your heart is heavy this morning, my lord Mhor?”
The title set his stomach to fluttering. He could believe it had all been a dream, as long as he was left to his own reflections, but hearing the words on Erin’s lips made it real.
“Don’t call me that, please. I’m no different than I was yesterday.
‘Gaelin’ was fine then, and it’s fine now.” He looked away, studying the young green fields around them.
“That’s not true, you know,” said Erin quietly. “Whether you wanted it or not, you have inherited this land. Of course you are different. Your bloodline, the blood of the House Mhoried, is inextricably linked with the land. I saw it happen, last night; the land poured out its power, waking your blood, and today you are the Mhor, for better or worse. Until you die or forswear your birthright, there can be no other. You must face that, for yourself and for your homeland.”
He turned to face her. “And how should you know? My heart, my mind, my body, they’re all the same. I haven’t become anything I wasn’t a day ago, Erin. And even if I’ve inherited my father’s throne, no one came along last night to tell me how to rule. Haelyn didn’t appear from the skies while I was sleeping to give me the courage of a legendary hero or the wisdom of one of the ancient kings. I don’t know anything more than I did before this happened.” He twisted his arm out of her grasp.
Erin’s eyes flashed. “If you feel that way, I suggest you learn, and fast. You’re the Mhor, and these people need you.”
She kicked her mare into a trot and rode away.
In another mile, they came to the crossroads of Pikesend. In the village green, at the meeting of the Pike and the Stoneway, they found a battered group of Mhorien cavalry. There were more than one hundred men on the green, many wounded, and it only took a glance to tell they’d recently fought and lost. The set of their shoulders and their haunted eyes were signs enough. Gaelin absorbed their injuries, the ragged look of the men and the bloodstained surcoats, and did not allow himself to look away.
Sergeant Toere led the party through the scattered squadron to an open space near the village’s covered well. A muddied standard was thrust into the ground at a slight angle, marking the location of the commander. A captain with a bandaged torso watched them ride up, his eyes searching the group for another officer. When he spied Gaelin’s armor and coat of arms, he saluted. “Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said.
“You’re a long way from the army.”
Gaelin returned his salute. “What unit is this, Captain?”
“Lord Caered’s cavalry, under Count Baesil. You are?”
“I’m Prince Gaelin.” He ignored the captain’s startled look.
“We’ve just returned to Mhoried. Can you tell me where Ghoere’s army is now? Or Count Baesil?”
“Of course, my lord.” The captain stood and pointed south. “The main body of Ghoere’s army camped about seven miles that way last night, though I expect they’re moving by now. Count Baesil’s withdrawing north.” He looked back the way Gaelin had come, but farther east. “I’d guess he’s maybe twelve miles off in that direction.” The captain dropped his arm, and seemed to sag a little before meeting Gaelin’s eyes. “The war’s not going well, my lord. Baesil tried to stand against Ghoere at Cwlldon Field, yesterday morning.
It was a hard fight, and we lost a lot of men. It’s a miracle Baesil saved any of us from that disaster.”
Gaelin felt his heart lurch. He swung himself out of the saddle and dropped to the ground, taking Blackbrand’s reins in his hand. “And the Mhor, and Prince Thendiere?”
The captain blinked. “They weren’t there, Prince Gaelin.
Count Baesil brought Shieldhaven’s muster to Cwlldon, but the Mhor’s party never arrived. We guessed they’d been held up somewhere.”
Gaelin found this inexplicable. Bannier must have struck down his father and brother in Shieldhaven’s halls, but what about the loyal guards and knights all around them? Even if they had been killed, why had the army of Shieldhaven missed the march? More than ever, he needed to get back to the capital and learn for himself what had happened. For the moment, he set the issue aside. “What about Baesil? What’s his plan?”
“I wouldn’t know, my lord,” the captain replied. “He’s drawing back, though. The army’s been mauled, and he doesn’t stand a chance of engaging Ghoere’s host and winning.
He’s running for the highlands, to hole up and lick his wounds. Our orders were to screen the retreat.”
Gaelin asked, “You said the losses were bad. How bad?”
The captain shook his head. “Baesil led six thousand men onto the field, including the levies of Tenarien and Cwlldon.
I don’t think half that number escaped.” He glanced at his men, and lowered his voice. “There were lords who didn’t show up for the battle, my lord. Maesilar, Balteruine, and Dhalsiel didn’t answer the call to arms.”
“Dhalsiel, too?” Gaelin closed his eyes. If the army of Mhoried had been beaten that badly, it would be nearly impossible to hold the river provinces against Ghoere’s attack -
Tenarien and Cwlldon were lost for sure, and probably Byrnnor as well.
Madislav spoke up. “What happened to you?” he said, sweeping a thick-muscled arm to indicate the squadron.
“We met up with a squadron of Ghoeran marauders last night. They’re all over the province, riding down stragglers from the battle, encircling the wagons and footsoldiers in the rear.” The captain grinned fiercely. “Cwlldon Field might have been a disaster, but there’s a hundred less Ghoerans to boast of it. We cut’em to pieces, my lord. I don’t believe they thought we’d have any fight left.”
“Good work,” said Gaelin, raising his head. These men deserved whatever praise he could give them; they had a long, hard fight ahead of them. “We’re heading for Shieldhaven to find out what’s keeping them out of the fight. Send a messenger to Count Baesil tonight, telling him that I’ve returned.
I’ll try to join him in a couple of days, or send word if I can’t.”
“I’ll send a man right now, if you like.”
“Very well. Good luck, Captain.” Gaelin swung himself back up into Blackbrand’s saddle, and waited for Sergeant Toere’s men to set out along the Pike. For the rest of the day, they followed the Cwlldon Pike east from the village, striking across the fields and forests of Mhoried’s heartland. They passed a great number of farms, bordered by ivy-grown walls of fieldstone and broad thickets or copses. They encountered no more Mhorien soldiers, or any scouts or marauders from Ghoere’s forces, but Gaelin was conscious of tension in the air. Too many fields and houses were empty. Even the small animals and birds seemed scarce.
By the day’s end, they were near the ancient belt of forest that ran through Mhoried’s heart; the hills in the middle distance were dark with woods. Madislav found a good campsite in a hollow a little way off the road, screened by a large copse. After tending to Blackbrand and eating a light supper, Gaelin excused himself and wandered away from the red glow of the campfire. Idly, he wondered how far away the light could be seen. It was a clear night, but the trees would screen the light well.
Just over the hollow’s lip, he encountered the sergeant’s pickets, two young soldiers who stood silently under the shadow of the trees, keeping watch. Gaelin greeted them quietly and moved on, letting his feet carry him where they would. He tried to think ahead to what he would do when he returned to Shieldhaven. Thendiere, Liesele, his father… Gaelin realized he had not even begun to confront their deaths. He’d lost few friends or relations in his lifetime, not since his mother had died, and suddenly, in the space of one week, his life seemed three-quarters emptied. He slumped to the ground, leaning against a weathered oak. “What am I going to do?” he said aloud.
The silence and darkness held no answers for him. He buried his head in his hands and tried to fight through the grief, feeling hot tears escaping from the corners of his eyes.
A long time later, Gaelin was roused from his thoughts by excited cries from the camp. He shook himself, rubbed his face, and rose to face the dim firelight. “What on earth?” he muttered. He made his way back toward the hollow, picking up speed. A man on horseback sat across the fire fro m Gaelin, speaking urgently with the soldiers nearby. Erin and Madislav crowded close, questioning the fellow. “I must be getting Gaelin,” the Vos said.
“No need, Madislav, I’m here.” Hearing his voice, the other soldiers edged back, clearing his path.
“Prince Gaelin,” said the man on horseback, bowing deeply. “I’m glad I found you.” He was dressed in a doublet of green and white, and wore a slender sword by his side. A courier from Shieldhaven! Gaelin realized. Of course. The Cwlldon Pike would be the fastest route between the capital and Baesil’s army. “I am Walden of Bevaldruor, my lord. I bear messages for Count Baesil, from Lord Anduine.”
“What news have you of the Mhor?” Gaelin demanded.
The courier’s face fell. “My lord prince, I don’t know how to tell you, but… the Mhor is dead. Ghoeran assassins slew him in Shieldhaven, last night. These are the tidings I bring Count Baesil.”
“I know,” Gaelin replied. “How did it happen?”
Walden struggled to find words. “A traitor opened the postern gate to a band of cutthroats, in the dark of night. They overcame the Mhor’s guards before anyone realized they were in the castle.”
“What of Thendiere?”
“The First Prince requires your presence immediately, my lord,” the courier said. “He is holding Shieldhaven now.”
“Thendiere is not dead?” Erin’s brow furrowed, and she stole a glance at Gaelin.
“No, my lady.” Walden returned his attention to Gaelin.
“My lord prince, Count Baesil must hear my tidings. I am sorry for the Mhor’s death, but I must go.”
Stunned, Gaelin dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“Of course. You’ll find Baesil retreating to Byrnnor.” Without another word, the courier rode out of the camp and spurred his horse to a gallop once he reached the pike. The hoofbeats faded quickly in the heavy night air. Gaelin felt his way to a seat by the fire and sat down, staring into the flames.
“Could you have been mistaken, Gaelin?” Erin sat down beside him. “You were right about the Mhor, but maybe you misunderstood about Thendiere.”
“No, I know what I heard,” he answered. “And I felt the land’s power, too. You saw that. It wouldn’t have happened if Thendiere still lived.”
He stared into the fire. “We have to get to Shieldhaven to find out what happened.”
The evening of the following day, Gaelin and his friends caught sight of the proud towers of Shieldhaven, the Mhor’s banners fluttering overhead in a stiff breeze. They’d found the road empty of traffic, meeting only a handful of peasants and woodsmen during their ride.
The day was brisk and slightly overcast, returning to the common weather of a Mhorien spring – cool and wet. Gaelin was looking forward to a night of sleeping in a real bed after a week of traveling, although he knew he’d be lucky to find the time to sleep at all for the next few days. The sun was setting as they emerged from the forests and started across the broad belt of farmland that surrounded the city of Bevaldruor and Shieldhaven itself. The valley seemed empty as well, although they could see a few people abroad.
At the foot of the causeway, Gaelin paused for a moment, gazing up at the fortress on its rocky hilltop. The road snaked back and forth under the commanding gaze of the battlements, climbing a hundred feet to the hilltop in four stonebuttressed switchbacks. Atop the gatehouse towers floated the twin standards of Mhoried and the Mhor.
“Thendiere must still live,” Ruide observed. “The Mhor’s banner is still flying.”
“I know it happened,” Gaelin said, almost speaking to himself. “There can’t be any doubt of it, can there?”
“Or they’ve been deceived,” Erin said.
Gaelin scowled. “There are hundreds of minor lords, menat- arms, courtiers, and attendants in and around the castle. I can’t conceive of a conspiracy so far-reaching that my father and brother could be killed and the assassins would be able to hide the truth.”
They started up the causeway, following Toere’s guards.
The brooding battlements possessed an air of watchfulness that Gaelin found threatening. He found himself looking at the fortifications and noticing just how formidable were the castle’s defenses. At the top of the causeway, they found a detachment of guards, dressed in the ceremonial arms of House Mhoried. They snapped to attention and saluted as Gaelin rode past. He followed Toere and his men into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, and started to dismount.
In the lengthening shadows, it took him a moment to spot the gibbet that stood at the far end of the court, beside the entrance to the great hall. A dozen bodies hung from the gallows, turning slowly from creaking nooses. He stopped dead, one foot still in the stirrup. “What happened here?” he said softly.
He recognized several of the men – the Brecht smith, Hans, was hanging at one end, with the groom Caede beside him. In the center, one frail body twisted far enough on its rope, and despite the coming darkness Gaelin knew it was Tiery.
A terrible suspicion was dawning in Gaelin’s heart, but it was Madislav who caught on first. “Vstaivyate l’yud!” he shouted. “It is a trap! The castle has been taken!”
From the innermost arch of the gatehouse, the mighty portcullis dropped. The capstans clattered in protest as the gate fell, striking the ground with a deafening crash. Three or four of Toere’s guards were trapped inside the gatehouse tunnel; a moment after the gate’s fall, their screams rang in the stone passageway as hidden archers cut them to pieces.
Gaelin whirled in panic; everywhere Ghoeran soldiers were appearing on the battlements, crossbows at the ready.
Shieldhaven’s battlements and towers may have been primarily intended for defense against a foe outside the walls, but as last resort the battlements also faced inward, providing overlapping fields of fire and channeling an enemy into a great stone coffin from which there was no escape.
Gaelin swung himself back into the saddle and cast about desperately, seeking some way out. With the portcullis in place behind them, a dash back out the front gate was out of the question – and even if it weren’t down, it would be suicide to run the gauntlet of arrow slits that lined the passage. Blackbrand reared and snorted, all too aware of Gaelin’s panic as he wheeled the horse, his eyes darting everywhere. Toere and his guards backed themselves into a tight circle around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide.
How did Shieldhaven fall? thought Gaelin. How could Tu o re l have brought this many men to take the castle?
“Lord Gaelin! What do we do?” called Toere, his voice hard and shrill. A few of his men had their own crossbows ready, pointing ten bows against the hundred or more that held the battlements against them.
“Why aren’t they shooting?” Erin muttered beside him.
“I don’t know,” he said, responding to both questions.
There was a sudden stir on the battlements of the keep itself, overlooking the great hall. Bannier strode out onto the wall, flanked by a distinctive figure in black armor, decorated with a wolf’s-head symbol.
Tuorel of Ghoere raised his arm, and the sharpshooters on the battlements placed their weapons to their shoulders. He lifted his visor and leaned forward, studying the tiny knot of Mhoriens in the center of the courtyard. “So, Prince Gaelin, you have returned home at last!” he called. “I am Baron Noered Tuorel, lord of Ghoere.” He gestured at the wizard standing beside him, and added, “I presume you already know Bannier. ”
“I see my courier found you,” the wizard observed. “Good.
It saves me the trouble of tracking you down.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you, traitor!” Gaelin called. A brilliant, white-hot fury was building in his heart. The sight of Tuorel and Bannier standing on the battlements of his home, beneath his father’s banner, and playing at courtesy suddenly inflamed Gaelin past all semblance of fear or reason. He met Tuorel’s eyes. “Tell your men to shoot, jackal! I’ll not plead for my life with you!”
Erin whispered, “Gaelin, I grant you we’re in trouble, but don’t give him ideas! Hear him out first. You never know what he might have to say.” She grasped his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t avenge your family if you’re dead.”
Tuorel smiled at Gaelin’s defiance, but his eyes remained cold as marble. “All right, Gaelin. I can see that you’re not without courage, and I respect that, so I’ll get to the point.
You hold the key to Mhoried; I want you to surrender your regency of Mhoried to me in a ceremony of investiture. If you agree, I will spare your companions and your guardsmen.
They will be free to leave Mhoried, unmolested.”
“And what of Prince Gaelin?” Erin called. “After he gives you the land his family has ruled for a thousand years, what then?”
Tuorel shrugged. “He knows I can’t allow him to leave. He will be Bannier’s prisoner. But he can spare many lives by cooperating, I assure you. Including your own, woman.” Tuorel paused a moment. “Gaelin, your sister Ilwyn still lives. She will be spared with the others.”
Gaelin’s fury burned brighter and purer, like a song of rage that danced in his blood, infusing his whole body with iron strength. Distantly, he recognized this must be a blood-gift brought about by the inheritance of Mhoried’s power. But while his muscles seemed almost ready to burst with the brilliant fire, his mind transcended the anger that had sparked him. His thoughts ran with a clarity and depth he had never before experienced, a marvelous comprehension that worked so swiftly it seemed that time itself had slowed. And in this state, an idea came to him, an idea so desperate and mad that it must have been born of insanity. He spoke quietly, carefully pitching his voice to carry only a few feet: “Listen, everyone.
In a moment or two, on my signal, we’re all going to charge the great hall. Stay on your horses and follow me. We’ve got to get out of the courtyard.”
Madislav chuckled drily. “We’ll be killed for certain. Ah, well, I am not trusting Tuorel to let us go, anyway.”
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, that’s insane.”
“I can’t give this bastard Mhoried. My life’s nothing against that.” He tapped Blackbrand’s flanks and walked the horse a step or two ahead, glaring up at Tuorel. “Tell me one thing, Tuorel: What happened to my father and brother? How did they die?” Toere and Madislav sidled close up beside him. He realized that they intended to use their own bodies to screen him from the hail of crossbow fire that would follow his first move.
The baron frowned, and weighed his words. “Very well, Gaelin. Bannier helped us take Shieldhaven almost a week ago.
We captured your father, your brother, and your sister then, although Liesele died in the attack. My apologies – that was an accident. Two days ago, your father and brother managed to escape their cells. They died in the attempt to leave Shieldhaven.”
He shook his head. “I regret their deaths, Gaelin.”
“Baron, you invaded Mhoried, and you picked this fight.
There are no accidents here – the blood of my family is on your hands, and I intend to see you dead for it!”
“Brave words, Prince Gaelin, for a man who stands a word away from death. Now, lay down your weapons and dismount. I’m growing tired of this conversation.”
Gaelin realized he was never going to get the chance he was looking for. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “Bannier – NOW!” and spurred Blackbrand for all he was worth. The horse leaped forward, the rest of the Mhoriens a step behind him.
On the battlements surrounding the courtyard, dozens of crossbowmen hesitated, looking up to Tuorel for orders. A good number of those closest to the wizard spun to train their bows on him, expecting treachery from the sorcerer. Even Tuorel whirled to face the wizard and had his sword half-out of its sheath. Bannier himself stood absolutely still, momentarily taken aback. In that brief instant, Gaelin’s party galloped for the steps leading to the great hall.
For every Ghoeran who hesitated or looked away, two kept their aim on the Mhoriens. From every side, crossbows thrummed, and the air hissed with bolts. Fifteen of Sergeant Toere’s guards surrounded Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide; nine fell in the first volley, wounded or killed by the deadly rain of quarrels. In one flashing moment of confusion and terror men and animals were falling and screaming in the courtyard.
A bolt struck Gaelin in his left hand, punching through his leather-and-steel gauntlet like paper. He ignored the burning fire that raced up his arm, and suddenly turned Blackbrand from the steps to the great hall, toward the door to the kitchens. He saw Toere lurch in his saddle, crumpling around a bolt buried in his breastplate. The soldier sagged but somehow clung to his saddle, raising his shield to try to screen Gaelin against the deadly fire. A couple of steps behind him, another quarrel took Ruide’s horse in the neck, and the animal stumbled and fell, pitching the valet heavily to the stone flags. The horse rolled over Ruide, crushing him.
Gaelin ran Blackbrand into the kitchen door, hard, the horse rearing and turning his head aside to burst the door off its hinges. Thanking Haelyn that the baron’s men hadn’t barred the door, he spurred the stallion down into the roaring heat and smoke of the castle’s kitchens. Servants scattered from his path. “One side!” Gaelin called, ducking over Blackbrand’s neck and galloping through the room. Pots and pans clattered and fell in his wake. Behind him, Erin followed on her gray mare, with Toere and his surviving guards driving their horses after them.
Gaelin paused and looked over his shoulder to see how many had managed to follow him into the keep. At the doorway, Madislav’s horse balked at going inside and reared.
Cursing loudly, the Vos swung down from the animal, trying to use it for cover, but a bolt suddenly appeared in the side of his chest. He grunted and fell back against the wall, and a moment later another whirring dart struck a glancing blow across his forehead. Madislav spun and fell in a loose heap.
“Madislav! No!” Gaelin started to turn Blackbrand, but Erin caught his reins.
“Gaelin, you can’t! Lead us out of here, or none of us will live to see the morning!” Gaelin noticed that a quarrel was sticking out of her calf, just below the knee, and her face was pale as china. “The others are gone, Gaelin, Madislav too. You can’t do anything for them.”
He hesitated a moment longer and then jerked the reins away and turned Blackbrand toward the passages leading into the castle’s depths. With a loud cry, he kicked the horse into a stumbling, awkward run, ducking beneath the low archways that divided the passages and chambers of the great hall.
He turned into a long, stone-dressed passageway that ran across the keep’s lower floor, toward Bannier’s tower. At the far end of the passage, a pair of Ghoeran guards appeared. Gaelin urged Blackbrand into a thundering charge. The passage was just large enough for him to rise in the saddle and swing his sword, cutting down the man on his right, while the fellow on the left was knocked flying back by the horse’s charge. At the end of the passage, he paused to see who was still with him.
“Gaelin! Where are we going?” said Erin.
“The sally port,” Gaelin replied. “We can’t go back the way we came, and we can’t ride around in Shieldhaven forever.
It’s the only way out, as far as I know.”
To e re was hunched over his saddle. His lips were blue, and a trickle of dark blood leaked from his mouth. “It’ll be guarded. ”
“I know. But we don’t have any other choices.”
Toere nodded. He gestured at two of the guards with them.
“Take the lead, we’re heading for the sally port.” Looking back to Gaelin, he said, “Stay behind these two, my lord Mhor, and let me bring up the rear.”
Gaelin didn’t argue. The soldiers led the way, turning down another passageway. They encountered a few scattered servants but no more guards for the moment, until they came to a small door of iron plate at the end of a hall. A pair of Ghoerans stood there, manning two arrow slits that looked out over the foot of the wall. Shieldhaven’s sally port was designed to give the castle’s defenders a place from which they could sortie if the main gatehouse was under attack. There was a band of only fifteen or twenty feet of negotiable slope between the castle and the hillside; an enemy who bypassed the main gate to attack the sally port would find himself clinging to a cliff’ s edge, just under the battlements of the castle.
The Ghoerans turned in astonishment at the clatter as six horsemen thundered into the small chamber. Their crossbows weren’t even cocked, and they had no chance against Toere’s soldiers. In a moment, the troopers had the door unlocked and unbarred. Gaelin opened the door carefully, glancing up at the dark battlements overhead.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Erin asked.
“Tuorel or Bannier may have guessed we’d come this way.
There might be men on the battlements who can fire at us the moment we set foot outside,” Gaelin said.
Erin smiled grimly. “As you pointed out a moment ago, we certainly can’t stay here.” She thought for a moment. “I may have something I can do to help.” Tilting her head back, she began to sing a strange song, using words that sounded elvish. Gaelin realized that she was casting a spell of some kind. In a moment, she finished, and gloom settled over the room, as impenetrable as black ink. In a moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see again, although only in shadows and gray silhouettes.
“Erin? What is this?”
“A spell of invisibility, a lesser magic I learned a few years ago. We must hurry, Gaelin – it won’t last long.”
“But I can still see you,” he protested.
“It’s impenetrable from the outside. Those who look at us will see nothing. They’ll have a tough time finding targets for their crossbows in this, I believe.”
Toere rode a little closer and slid down from his horse, coughing. He leaned on the animal’s side and said, “Go now, Mhor Gaelin. I’ll stay behind to hold the gate.”
“Toere, you’ll be killed,” Gaelin said.
The sergeant grimaced and coughed again. “I’ve not got much longer, anyway. I may be able to discourage them from following you for a few minutes.” He staggered over to one of the Ghoerans and began winching the fellow’s crossbow.
“Go on, Prince Gaelin, get going!”
Gaelin bowed his head. “My thanks, Toere.” He tapped Blackbrand’s flanks and rode out into the open again, under the looming walls. Gaelin could hear the men moving around up there, shouting to each other. Erin stayed beside him.
“Don’t move too far from me, or you’ll be seen,” she said.
“And keep silent! We can still be heard.”
Gaelin walked Blackbrand to the cliff’s edge and peered down. “Good, it’s still here,” he whispered. “Follow me exactly – this is a damned dangerous stunt, but we don’t have time to ride around the castle.”
Erin leaned out of her saddle and looked down the rocky slope. “You must be kidding,” she hissed.
“I tried it once, years ago,” he replied. “Tuorel’s men would have to be fools to follow us, right?” Blackbrand balked at first, but Gaelin coaxed him over the edge, and instantly found himself sliding down the slope sideways.
Blackbrand neighed in terror in a scree of dust and gravel. He reached the first outcropping and turned the horse to the other side, scrabbling desperately for the next foothold.
The voices above shouted an alarm. Gaelin could only guess what they might be seeing, but he knew that the rockfall and the horses’ panicked whinnies made it fairly obvious that they were here. Erin gasped in fright as her horse lurched and slid. “Gaelin! This is madness!”
Behind her, one of the remaining guards lost control of his horse. Both animal and man toppled forward, their descent turning into a lethal plunge. Gaelin ignored them, since every ounce of his attention was devoted to keeping himself alive.
Then the slope leveled, and in a few heartbeats Gaelin and Blackbrand were plunging downhill through the pines that clung to Shieldhaven’s flanks. The castle seemed impossibly high and distant, and the forest now screened them from view.
At the foot of the hill, Gaelin reined in Blackbrand and looked around. Erin was still with him, along with two guardsmen.
He was stunned. That’s it? he thought. Twenty of us rode into Shieldhaven, not half an hour ago. The brilliant white madness that had preserved his life through the ambush and the wild escape died as quickly as it had come, and the pain of his injury – the bolt that transfixed his hand – came surging back.
Erin trembled in terror, pain, and exhaustion. “I don’t believe I did that,” she said, looking back up the hillside.
Gaelin winced. “When I was fifteen, I made a bet with Cuille Dhalsiel that it could be done. I killed the horse trying it.” He met her eyes and added, “What other choice did we have?”
In the distance, he could still hear the clatter of the castle readying a pursuit – horses whinnied, and men shouted orders at each other.
“We’d better go, and quickly.”
One of the guards spoke. “Which way, my lord?”
Gaelin swayed in the saddle, suddenly dizzy and weak. As the brilliant fire died in his heart, exhaustion flooded his body and clouded his mind. “Anywhere but here,” he said.