Riding as fast as they dared push the horses, Gaelin and his companions covered fifty miles on the first day of travel from the abbey. They encountered no more Ghoerans, but they ran across the work of marauders and raiders in several places.
Gaelin was surprised to find black-feathered goblin arrows by one homestead near the border of Dhalsiel and Byrnnor.
Even in the worst winter raids, the goblins of Markazor didn’t come this far west into Mhoried.
They camped for a few hours in the ruins of a long-abandoned estate in the countryside, stabling their mounts in the wreckage of the manor’s hall. Before sunrise, they rose and continued on their way, blundering through a dense, wet fog that shrouded them in gray mist.
After a morning of cutting across the broad, open fields of Byrnnor, Gaelin spied the dark turrets of a castle looming out of the rain, a few hundred yards ahead. Castle Ceried was not as large or modern as Shieldhaven, but it was still a well-built motte-and-bailey fortress, slowly improved over the years by the counts of Ceried. The fields around the castle were crowded with the white tents and smoky fires of the army of Mhoried.
They rode beneath the castle’s rain-streaked battlements.
Gaelin led the way under the castle’s gatehouse, followed by the rest of his entourage. Adetachment of men-at-arms in the colors of House Ceried manned the gate. The sergeant in charge held up his hand to stop Gaelin as he rode into the courtyard. “Halt, sir,” he said in a rough voice. “Your name?”
Erin spoke up from beside Gaelin. “The Mhor Gaelin and his company, sergeant.”
The sergeant hastily saluted. “I’ll send word to the count immediately, my lord.” He sent a young page running off toward the keep at once and called for the stablehands to help with their horses. While Gaelin and the others dismounted, stretching and kneading the kinks in their legs and backs, a crowd of off-duty soldiers and servants gathered, pointing and whispering.
A few moments later, the doors of the keep burst open across the courtyard, and Count Baesil appeared, striding purposefully across the bailey in his black armor. A dozen knights, officers, and lords flanked him, talking excitedly among themselves. Gaelin stepped out from behind Blackbrand and walked forward to greet the count. “Count Ceried.
It’s good to see you.”
“I thought you dead or captured, Gaelin,” Baesil rasped. “I certainly didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep.” He looked past Gaelin at the curious spectators and barked, “Go on, get on with your business!” Reluctantly, the commoners and off-duty soldiers broke up and went their own way.
Gaelin looked around, frowning. “You didn’t have to do that on my account. Friendly faces have been hard to find lately.”
“Come with me, Gaelin. We’ve much to discuss.” Without waiting for Gaelin’s reply, Baesil turned on his heel and strode off through the gatehouse, dismissing his guards with a curt wave of his hand. Gaelin stared after him, glanced at Erin, and then hurried to catch up. The bard followed a respectful distance behind him. The count didn’t speak as they walked out of the castle’s gate and started toward the camp, skirting the moat.
“Well?” said Gaelin as he drew abreast of the count. Baesil’s long, shanky stride was difficult for Gaelin to match, and must have left shorter men in the dust. “How do things stand?”
“You have no idea how much harder you just made things for me,” Baesil snapped.
“What? What do you mean?”
“With you dead or captured, there was nothing for me to do but make the best terms I could with Tuorel. He’s beat us in the field, he cut out Mhoried’s heart when he took Shieldhaven and killed the Mhor, and he’s got half the southern lords bending their knees to him. Now I have to decide what I’m going to do with you.” The old lord didn’t even glance at Gaelin as he finished his declaration with a bitter stream of foul oaths.
Gaelin caught Baesil by the arm. “Stand still and talk to me, damn it! I didn’t spend the last ten days fighting my way through ambushes and skulking through the countryside to let you decide what you’re going to do with me!”
Erin touched Gaelin’s arm softly. “Gaelin, it may be wise to hold your temper in check.”
Baesil’s eyes bored holes in Gaelin, as he studied the prince. “I have no time to coddle a hotheaded young rake who has the gall to call himself Mhor. Your father was the Mhor, Gaelin. You will be treated as an honored guest until I decide where you should be, but you will not stray out of my sight until I figure out what to do.” Baesil jerked his arm from Gaelin’s grasp and turned his back on him.
Gaelin clenched his fists. “I swore the oaths before the Red Oak yesterday morning, Baesil. I’m the Mhor, whether you like it or not. You hold these lands from me, and that is my army camped in those fields. I’ll ride down there and tell them to storm your castle if that’s what it takes to get your attention.”
“I’m their commander. How many do you think would follow you?”
“I’m Daeric’s son, and I swore the oaths. I think most of them would.”
“You’d pick a fight with a Mhorien lord, while Ghoere’s army stands only three days’ march away?”
Gaelin returned his gaze evenly. “My father always spoke highly of you, count. He said that you were one of the three or four lords he’d trust with his life. I’m beginning to wonder what he saw in you.”
Baesil held Gaelin’s eye a moment longer. Then, slowly, his face split into a fierce grin, and his eyes flashed. “Good,” he said. “You’ve iron in you, boy. More than I remember. That’s good.”
Gaelin was still shaking with anger. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right. Let’s try this again. How do matters stand?”
“In a minute. First I want to hear how you found your way home from Endier.”
“Very well.” Gaelin related the entire tale, starting with the appearance of Lord Baehemon in Shieldhaven. Baesil constantly interrupted with curt questions, until Gaelin found himself growing furious.
“Well, it sounds as if you’re the Mhor.” Baesil inclined his head. “I’m afraid that Mhoried’s been gutted like a fish, my lord.”
“Go on.”
Baesil started walking toward the camp again, this time at a slower pace. “Ghoere sent damn near their whole strength against us, starting with Riumache. We’d always thought Tuorel would attack there, but we figured the town could hold out for a couple of weeks at least, time enough to muster the lords and relieve Lady Tenarien.”
“But the Maesil froze,” Erin said.
“I see you’ve heard the story. Tuorel took the town in an afternoon, and he was off and running.” Baesil swore under his breath. “The man knows how to run an army, I’ll grant him that. He caught us with our forces dispersed and drove straight up through Tenarien into Cwlldon on the Old Stoneway. Within two days of the fall of Riumache, I took the army of Bevaldruor south to meet him, trying to gather up as many of the lords’ musters as I could. But the northlords were busy with a horde of goblins that crossed over from Markazor at the same time that Tuorel invaded, and half the southlords decided to sit on their collective behind and watch Ghoere cut their rightful lord to pieces.”
“So you had to face Tuorel with half the army you should have had,” Gaelin said.
Baesil’s vitriolic scorn failed him, and he turned away.
“I met him at Cwlldon Field. That was a mistake,” he said. “I never should have engaged Baehemon there. I knew we didn’t have enough men, but I thought I might be able to out-maneuver him or fox him somehow. All I did was get a lot of good men killed and barely put a dent in Baehemon’s army.
And on top of that, I learned of Shieldhaven’s fall the next day. That was a week ago.”
“It’s in the past,” Gaelin said. “What’s left of the army?”
“I’ve about two thousand men,” Baesil replied. “Two hundred Knights Guardian, another two hundred knights and heavy cavalry – those are the retinues of the southlords, mostly – about three hundred light horse, four hundre d archers, three hundred pike, and a couple hundred infantry and skirmishers. We’ve also started to raise the levy of Byrnnor, so there’re five or six hundred farmers with pitchforks and bailing hooks scattered among the real troops.”
“How many more could we raise?”
Baesil glanced at him. “Oh, if we turned out the countryside, probably two or three thousand in the next week. But they wouldn’t be worth a damn. I’d be sending them to slaughter if I threw them into a battle without some equipment and a little training.”
“What do you know of Ghoere’s forces?” Erin asked.
Baesil looked at Gaelin and then the bard. Gaelin said, “Go ahead, Baesil. Erin’s been with us from the start in this thing, and she’s a White Hall bard, like Tiery. She’s had plenty of chances to betray me already.”
The general cleared his throat and nodded. “Well, after Cwlldon Field, Ghoere’s army dispersed to run down the scattered units we’ve got all over the place. They’ve kept a portion of their fighting strength together, maybe four thousand heavy troops, but the rest of their forces are engaged in securing the countryside.” He pointed across the rain-soaked fields toward the south. “The main body camped about twenty-five miles that way last night. They’re making for us with the best speed they can manage, but it’s getting a little harder for them.”
“When will they be here?”
“Three days, if they hurry, but if I were Baehemon, I’d get close and then camp a mile or two away.” Baesil gave Gaelin a dark look. “I’ll have to decide whether to retreat again.”
Gaelin weighed the information. They were in among the tents now. He was surprised by the number of units in the camp – there were standards and banners from dozens of different households, levies, and royal companies. But each was decimated, reduced to a fraction of its strength. This was an army that had been mauled.
“What do you want to do?” he asked the count.
“Well, I want to stand and bloody Baehemon’s nose. If we retreat, these are my lands he’ll be pillaging. But I don’t think we can beat him. We’ll need to fall back, up into the highlands, and try to rebuild our strength. There’s no sense taking him on until we know we can win.”
There was silence for a moment. Gaelin felt out of his depth in discussing strategy with Baesil. His own military experience was limited to a few years of raid and counterraid against the goblin marches.
“Here’s my suggestion,” he offered. “I don’t think we’re going to win this war in three days, no matter how badly we maul Baehemon, so let’s not try. We’ll fall back before he gets here, help the northlords chase the goblins from their lands, and try to build up an army strong enough to face Ghoere.”
Baesil nodded. “That’s my plan, but I’m leaving a few volunteers behind to hold Castle Ceried. No sense in letting Ghoere take it without a fight.”
“Good,” Gaelin said. “There’s one more thing: Before we go, I want to give Baehemon and Tuorel something to remember us by. We have seven hundred mounted troops?”
“That would be about right,” Count Baesil agreed.
“What if we visited their camp in a day or two, when Baehemon gets a little closer? The infantry can pull out beforehand to get a head start, and we’ll give them reason to sleep light at night.”
Baesil frowned, thinking. “We’re not likely to do them any lasting harm. No, I’m not going to do that.”
Gaelin stepped past Baesil, and scratched at his chin, looking out over the army’s camp. “Count Ceried, I know I only showed up on your doorstep a few minutes ago, and I appreciate the fact that you have a better grasp of the situation than I do. I will give your recommendations a great deal of con- sideration. I understand your advice, but think about a raid.”
“It’s a stupid idea, Gaelin. We’re outnumbered, and our chance of achieving surprise is negligible. Therefore, I won’t do it.”
“Count Ceried, that is not the Ceried muster out there. It’s the army of Mhoried, and it’s my concern as well as yours. I don’t need you to lead it. I need you to help me lead it.”
Baesil crossed his arms in front of his chest and stood his g round. “Who do you think you are, Gaelin? I built that army with my own hands, and they won’t march a mile until I say so.”
“Whom do you recommend as your relief?”
“What?”
Gaelin held Baesil’s eyes. “I asked, who else can run the army? I don’t know how, and you’re relieved of command.”
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, have you lost your mind?”
“Aye,” Baesil agreed. “Have you lost your mind, boy? My men are nearly half of Mhoried’s army.”
“I didn’t say that I was releasing you from your feudal obligations, Baesil. Those men stay in my army. But I don’t need you to lead them if you don’t get it through your head that I am not your puppet, your spokesman, or your rallying cry. I am the Mhor, and, by Haelyn, that means I am going to lead the fight to free my country.” He advanced to stand nose-to-nose with the count and lowered his voice. “Well?
How do you want to handle this? I need you, Ceried.”
Baesil’s jaw hung open in surprise. Deliberately, he swallowed and scowled. “All right. We’ll do it your way. If you need my help, I will continue as the general of Mhoried’s army. But I still advise against a raid on Baehemon’s camp.”
Gaelin released his breath and nodded, keeping his face neutral.
“I will be honored to accept your service, Count Ceried.
N o w, let me ask you a question: A re you hesitant to attack Baehemon because you’re afraid of being defeated again?”
The general stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Then, I want you to plan an attack of some kind against Baehemon before we withdraw.” Gaelin looked away, softening his stance. “It’ll make our troops feel good to throw a punch back at Ghoere after the pounding they’ve taken. And if we’re successful, we’ll take two or three hours away from Baehemon’s march every day, since he’ll be forced to fortify his camps.”
Grudgingly, Baesil nodded. “All right, then. We’ll mount a raid.”
“I’ll leave the details to you,” Gaelin said. “And I’ll need to talk to you at greater length about the military situation.”
Baesil nodded. “Give me a couple of hours to get the information together. Also, it would be a good idea for you to review the troops. They’ll be heartened to see the Mhor with their own eyes.” With that, he turned and left.
The moment he was out of earshot, Erin wheeled to face Gaelin. “What on earth were you thinking? You can’t show up out of the blue and expect to command the loyalty your father did. You almost drove him to revolt!”
Gaelin nodded shakily, trying not to show his fright. “If I’m going to do this, Erin, I’m not going to be a figurehead.
You asked me before if I was looking for someone to tell me what to do. Well, that’s exactly what Baesil had in mind from the moment he saw me. Mhoried can pull together to follow the Mhor – but I don’t think Mhoried would follow Baesil Ceried, who happens to have the Mhor’s heir stashed in his breast pocket.”
Erin rubbed her temples. “There must have been a better way to do that. And why did you insist on mounting an attack against his advice? Baesil Ceried knows more about fighting a war than you ever will.”
“The raid’s immaterial at this point. I asked him to do it, and he said no, so it turned into a demonstration of power.
He cornered me, so I stood my ground.”
“So? Find an excuse to cancel it in a day or two, and do what he suggests.”
“I don’t think I can, now.” Gaelin ran his hand through his hair and drew a deep breath. “I had really hoped to rest an hour or two once we got here.”
“Rest?” Erin laughed without humor. “There’s no such thing for the Mhor, Gaelin.”
*****
Gaelin learned the truth of Erin’s words over the next three days. Each day, he was up an hour before sunrise, and each night audiences and councils of war ran long after midnight.
He was certain he could find three or four more hours a day if he only had some idea of what he was doing – he’d never seen his father looking as tired as he did when he glanced into a mirror. After a day of utter chaos, Brother Superior Huire surprised him by requesting the privilege of serving as his appointment secretary. “As you can imagine, the high prefect is extremely busy, too,” he said. “I’ve served as her chamberlain for years, and I believe I could help you.”
“I’m concerned Lady Iviena may have orders for you that might cloud your allegiances,” Gaelin replied warily.
Huire nodded. “Of course, my first loyalty is to the Temple.
But the high prefect told me to give you counsel and aid, and it seems to me I can do both by acting as your secretary.”
“Will you swear before Haelyn to keep secret what I tell you in confidence?”
“I will, my lord Mhor.” Huire’s calm reserve slipped for a moment, and a note of anger crept into his voice. “You may forget that I, too, am a Mhorien. Lady Tenarien of Riumache is my first cousin. When Baehemon burned her keep to the ground, he murdered dozens of my kinfolk.”
Gaelin designated Huire as his secretary, and within hours a semblance of order crept back into his life. The monk was intelligent and thorough, carefully organizing appointments and recording Gaelin’s pledges and requests, helping him keep track of what he said to whom. While Gaelin relied on Huire to help him manage his time and the day-to-day business of gaining control of Mhoried’s government, Erin helped him in his diplomatic correspondence and meetings with other nobles. She spent two days canvassing Mhoried’s counts and lesser lords, writing dozens of letters and dispatching messengers to all corners of the kingdom.
Late in their second night at Castle Ceried, she appeare d in Gaelin’s private chambers, dark circles under her eyes.
“I’ve dispatched letters to every lord worth writing and talked to every lord or envoy here,” she informed him. “Of the counts, Torien, Marloer, Ceried, and Hastaes acknowledge your coronation.”
“That means that I hold the counties of Torien, Marloer, Byrnnor, and Winoene,” Gaelin mused. “That’s only four out of ten. What of Tenarien, Cwlldon, and Bevaldruor itself?”
“I can’t say. They’re all occupied by Ghoeran troops, so their sympathies are probably of no matter.” Erin shrugged.
“Sir Vaerad Cwll is here with a company of sixty-odd Cwlldoners.
He may be the count, if old Count Cwll is dead. He’s on your side.”
“What of the lesser lords?” asked Gaelin. Just as the Mhor commanded the allegiance of the counts, each count had dozens of minor estates, titled peers, knights, and other such lesser nobles who owed him fealty.
“Almost all the lesser lords of the four counties you hold are with you,” Erin told him. “Asmall number from the overrun counties have joined your banner – like Vaerad Cwll – and a handful who didn’t shift their allegiance, though their counts turned their coats.”
“I have to find a way to bring more of these men to my side. Especially the ones who are backing Ghoere.” Gaelin buried his head in his hands and sighed. “How on earth do I do that?”
Erin only shrugged. “You knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Gaelin. It’s hard to convince people to join the losing side.”
When the army of Ghoere was two days away, Count Baesil sent footsoldiers north by tens and twenties, slipping out of the camp in small groups to maintain the illusion that all of Mhoried’s soldiers were still there. His men made a show of constructing earthen ramparts and fieldworks outside the castle, as if they were planning to engage Baehemon’s army from fortified positions. To add detail to the deception, Gaelin toured the defenses, pretending to inspect them.
While the army prepared to move, Gaelin found an increasing amount of time was taken up in dealing with matters of court. In peacetime, the Mhor heard cases of high justice, authorized the use of royal lands for private enterprises, granted special dispensations such as licenses and agreements, and juggled the fragile alliances and fealty of the lords around him. The routine business of the kingdom had consumed hours of Mhor Daeric’s time in the form of audiences, hearings, and meetings each day. Still, it astonished Gaelin that there were nobles, merchants, and royal officers who expected him to deal with these mundane affairs. “Doesn’t anyone realize that we have a war to fight?” he complained to Erin and Huire after one lengthy session.
Erin’s advice on this matter was direct. “Declare a royal stay on matters of state,” she said. “All permits, sentences, pardons, and other agreements are to continue in force until you declare the emergency has come to an end.”
Gaelin agreed wholeheartedly and had Huire prepare the pronouncements. Naturally, most of the petitioners were unhappy with this arrangement, but for the most part they understood the reasons behind it. Some ministers and officials persisted in trying to get Gaelin to review their troubles, but the royal stay reduced the torrent to a reasonable number of requests and interviews.
A similar problem existed with the handful of foreign diplomats who drifted into Castle Ceried by ones and twos.
These were people Gaelin dared not offend, and most had their own agendas they were determined to present, regardless of the demands on Gaelin’s time. Fortunately, most of the diplomats and ambassadors of Mhoried’s court remained in Shieldhaven, the recognized capital of the country, and bided their time – they dealt with neither Gaelin nor Tuorel.
Last, and certainly not least, Baesil Ceried thrust Gaelin immediately into the bottomless morass of problems involved in the war effort. The volatile old general, still smoldering with resentment, took a diabolical pleasure in browbeating Gaelin with a barrage of technical details and issues.
He claimed he was trying to school Gaelin in the art of war between nations and give him an appreciation for the obstacles that faced the losing side. Simply feeding the three thousand soldiers, camp followers, and courtiers who filled Castle Ceried and its surroundings was a problem of nearly insoluble dimensions. With the fall of Shieldhaven and the southern provinces, vast amounts of supplies had fallen into Tuorel’s hands. “Early spring’s a miserable time to fight a war,” Baesil told Gaelin. “The granaries and storehouses are empty from winter, and the first plantings won’t be ready for weeks. In fact, even if Ghoere’s army wasn’t coming here, we might have to move just to find food.”
Somehow, Gaelin muddled through the longest three days of his life and survived it. There were many people who were unhappy with the way things were run, but at least they were being run, and Gaelin had to satisfy himself with that. On the morning of his third day in Castle Ceried, he was in the mid- dle of an audience with a southern lord, discussing the possibility of raising the countryside against Ghoere, when Erin gracefully entered the room, dressed in her finest White Hall garb.
Words died in Gaelin’s throat when he caught sight of her.
Erin’s red hair cascaded to her shoulders, and she wore a sweeping gown of brocade and silk that accented her tall, graceful body without seeming festive or overly decorative.
“Please excuse me, my lords,” she said, “but I have learned that an emissary from Diemed is on the way here at this very moment.”
“Diemed!” said Gaelin. “Vandiel’s reply, already? Lord Waere, I hope you’ll forgive me for taking my leave?”
“Of course, my lord Mhor,” the nobleman replied. “l know how important Diemed may be to our cause.” He bowed and made his way out of the chamber.
“You may want to change,” Erin said. “By all accounts, Baron Tuorel is declaring to anyone who will listen that you are a bloodthirsty brigand. There’s no reason to look the part.”
“Do we know anything about Diemed’s ambassador?”
“I believe it’s the Princess Seriene,” Erin replied.
“Vandiel’s daughter?” Gaelin stopped and glanced at Erin.
“That’s surprising.”
“I’ll leave you to prepare, my lord,” Erin said frostily. She slipped out the door, not even sparing him another look.
Now what in Cerilia was that about? he wondered, staring after her. In a moment, he gave up trying to decipher her words and actions, and set about pulling out his finest robes of state. Huire had found decent clothing for the new Mhor, and he settled for a tunic of dark green to wear over soft gray hose and fine black boots. He buckled on his sword belt and wore his long sword by his side. He didn’t want Seriene to think he was a bandit lord, but neither did he want her to think he was a helpless dandy who survived only by the wit of his generals.
Checking his appearance one last time in a small mirror by the door, he left the room and headed for Castle Ceried’s hall.
Brother Superior Huire fell in beside him. They entered the great hall, which was unusually full – a number of minor lords and knights had apparently found some business at the court in order to be on hand for the meeting between Gaelin and Princess Seriene. The conversation came to a halt as Gaelin appeared and stepped up to the dais.
At the far end of the room, a chamberlain stepped forward and announced, “My lord Mhor, the Princess Seriene of Diemed!”
Two footmen opened the doors and bowed. The Dieman entourage filed in, their faces carefully reserved as their eyes darted about, taking in the scene. In the middle of the group, Seriene stood, her hands clasped before her. She was little more than five feet in height, but her cold and regal bearing drew all eyes in the room. A long gown of rich blue silk displayed her figure to great effect, and a small golden tiara gleamed in her raven-dark hair. Gaelin drew in his breath at the sight of her.
Seriene paused for a moment, then advanced to meet Gaelin. Her own guards stopped a good twenty feet short, grounding their gleaming halberds and settling into an impressive parade rest, while a pair of ladies-in-waiting and one silver-haired priest in the robes of the temple of Avanalae followed her. Before the dais, Seriene curtsied while her attendants kneeled. In a cool, clear voice, she said, “Hail, Gaelin of Mhoried. My father, Prince Vandiel Diem of Diemed, sends you his warmest greetings and hopes this day finds you in good health. I am the Princess Seriene Diem, and I am honored by this meeting.”
Gaelin had rehearsed his response. “Welcome, Princess Seriene.
Your presence here graces Mhoried’s rightful court and demonstrates the true friendship of Diemed and Mhoried.
You are our honored guest.” The weight of Seriene’s dark and measuring gaze on him made Gaelin acutely conscious of the words, and he nearly stumbled over them.
The Avanalite priest, a high-ranking clergyman introduced as Prelate Edoeren, began a long-winded oratory on the traditional alliance of the two countries. As Gaelin’s herald, Erin parried with a dignified response. Their words were meaningless in his ears; he couldn’t take his eyes from Seriene’s face, and he thought he saw a hint of interest in the set of her mouth, as she returned his gaze without shying away.
The formalities concluded, Gaelin invited the Dieman emissaries to join him for a light meal to rest from their jour- ney. As they left the room, Baesil Ceried leaned close and said, “Now the real diplomacy begins. We’ll soon see what the Diemans can offer us.”
Withdrawing to the small council room that had been prepared, they made a pretense of light conversation while they dined on roasted venison and capers, potatoes, cabbage, and stuffed pastries. The Diemans had come by boat, sailing up the Maesil and then the Stonebyrn to the western shores of Byrnnor, with a day of hard riding to reach Castle Ceried. All in all, the journey had taken them a week. “You must have left as soon as my letter from the Abbey of the Red Oak arrived,”
Gaelin observed.
“Actually, your father dispatched a letter two weeks ago.
When I heard that Shieldhaven had fallen, I altered my plans and decided to seek you out,” said Seriene. “We made the best time we could.” She raised a glass of south coast wine and sipped at it demurely. “My thanks for your hospitality. I feel I am sufficiently rested to discuss the issues your father raised in his letter, Prince Gaelin.”
Gaelin glanced at Erin, but she was watching the princess.
“Very well. The war has not gone well for Mhoried. Baron Tuorel obtained the services of Bannier, our former court wizard and a very capable mage. In addition, the goblins of Markazor attacked at the same time.”
“Resulting in a catastrophic defeat of the army of Mhoried and the loss of Shieldhaven,” Seriene said evenly. In the corner of his eye, Gaelin could see a thin line of anger cross Count Baesil’s face, but the general held his tongue.
“As matters stand now, Tuorel holds most of the southern provinces as well as Bevaldruor,” Gaelin continued. “The goblins have been pushed back to Markazor, for the most part, and the northlands are still in our hands. We can hold them against Tuorel indefinitely, but Diemed’s aid would help us greatly in winning back the lands we have lost to Ghoere.”
Seriene brushed that aside for the moment. “With all due respect, my lord prince, how is it that you claim the title of Mhor? Tuorel’s ambassadors say your father capitulated to the baron when he took Shieldhaven and that you are nothing more than a disinherited pretender.”
Gaelin didn’t doubt Tuorel was telling all of Anuire about the so-called justice of his actions. He rose from the table.
“Tuorel is lying,” he said quietly. “I can see you have no way of knowing which story is true, so I won’t try to convince you. But I will tell you this: Tuorel murdered my father, my brother, and one of my sisters. The last living member of my family – my other sister, Ilwyn – is held captive in her own home.”
“If Tuorel killed your father, why didn’t he force him to divestiture?
Or try to take his bloodline, for that matter? The Mhoried line is one of the oldest and strongest of all Anuire,” asked the Prelate Edoeren.
Gaelin turned and shook his head. “I don’t know, Prelate. I suspect my father decided his kingship and the continuation of the line of the Mhors were more important than his own life.” He gestured at the white streaks over his temples. “You recognize the bloodmarks of Mhoried?”
“I don’t debate your identity, Prince Gaelin,” the prelate said. “You are who you say you are. My question is, are you what you say you are?”
Erin leaned forward. “For whatever reason, Tuorel obtained neither the Mhor’s blood nor his regency. The Mhor Daeric chose death over divestiture, giving Prince Gaelin a chance to continue the reign of the Mhors.” She nodded at Gaelin. “Aweek ago, he took the oaths of the Mhor before the Red Oak of Mhoried. He is the lawful ruler of this realm, and he still holds the divine right to Mhoried.”
“Granting you that,” Seriene said, “Tuorel is still right about one thing: you are a hunted man in your own kingdom.
His army outnumbers you by three to one, and he holds the richest lands of your realm. You may be able to elude him for a time, but in the long run he will grind you to nothing.”
“That is precisely why we need your help,” Count Baesil replied. “Ghoere has almost his entire army in Mhoried, engaging us on all fronts. If Diemed’s army threatened him, he would be forced to withdraw some of his forces to meet you, giving us the chance to defeat him entirely.”
“ You realize, of course, that we would have to secure the cooperation of Endier or Roesone in order to engage Ghoere? ”
“They’re no friends of Tuorel. They may be willing to help.”
“My father anticipated this request,” Seriene said, her face unmoving. “His reply is this: Assuming Diemed joins you in a war against Ghoere, can you guarantee you will be able to threaten Ghoere enough to hold at least half his army here?
Diemed can muster about four thousand men for an invasion of Ghoere, which means Ghoere can meet and defeat our attack with only a portion of his strength.”
Baesil Ceried snarled in disgust. “In other words, you don’t want to jump in on what you perceive as the losing side, regardless of old friendship or treaties.”
Seriene’s eyes flashed in anger, but her voice remained cool. “You could look at it that way,” she replied. “The truth of the matter is simple – if by helping you we do nothing but become Ghoere’s next victim, we have neither helped you nor served our own purposes. Diemed has enemies of its own to worry about; Prince Avan of Avanil, the new barony of Roesone, even pirates from Mieres across the straits. We dare not weaken ourselves by allying with a weak power.”
Gaelin thought for a moment, staring out over the Mhorien camp from a shuttered arrow embrasure. “Your concerns are understandable,” he said after a moment. “If we were to demonstrate we have at least the capability to keep Ghoere’s attention engaged in Mhoried, would that change your mind?”
Seriene glanced at the prelate before answering. “My lord Mhor, we would have to see you make some effort to retake the lands you’ve lost. So far, you have not been able to stand up to Ghoere’s army. Show us at least the promise of success in a future campaign, and we will do what we can.”
“I suppose that’s the best we will get for now,” Gaelin said with a sigh. “Would you consider aid that didn’t directly involve your forces in the fight?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We can use arms, equipment, and supplies of all kinds,” Gaelin said. “If you want to see us become strong enough to stand up to Ghoere, deliver these things to us. Of course, we will pay for them when we can.”
Seriene’s eyes narrowed. “I feel confident that my father will be willing to help you in this fashion, but you must realize that there’s no easy way to reach you. It may be a while.”
“Then the sooner we start, the better,” Baesil replied.
Seriene stood and smoothed her gown. “I will prepare a dispatch for my father,” she said. “We are agreed that Diemed will wait until Mhoried is in a better position before committing troops to the war? And that we shall undertake to help you with arms and equipment as we can?”
Gaelin nodded. “I wouldn’t say we’re agreed on both points, but we will accept it.”
Seriene smiled a little more warmly. “It’s a fair measure of what my father thinks of Tuorel that I’m here talking to you at all,” she continued. “In fact, he has requested I remain here for a time to act as Diemed’s representative at the court of the Mhor in exile.” She dropped her gaze demurely.
“We will be delighted by your company,” Gaelin replied.
“As you see firsthand how things are going, you may be moved to increase your efforts to help us throw Tuorel back across the Maesil.”
Seriene bowed gracefully. “Then we shall withdraw for now.” She paused a moment before addressing Gaelin by his rightful title. “Mhor Gaelin, my time is at your disposal.” She raised her eyes to Gaelin’s with a direct, disarming expression and a slight smile on her perfect lips before turning away. Gaelin watched the Diemans leave, holding his thoughts until they were gone.
Later that same day, in the evening, Baesil reported that the footsoldiers and the remaining baggage train were on their way, and Baehemon was camped only four miles away. As the sun set, he took Gaelin up to the battlements and pointed out the twisting lines of smoke that marked the Ghoerans’ cooking-fires. “We’ll give them a couple of hours to get nice and comfortable, and then we’ll hit them,” the general said.
“I’ll ride with you on the raid,” Gaelin said. His stomach was twisted and tight with nervousness, but he offered Baesil a smile. “I want the men to know I won’t send them someplace I wouldn’t send myself.”
The general scowled. “Damn it, Gaelin, this isn’t some kind of game! There’s every chance Baehemon might have caught wind of our plans and we’ll be riding into an ambush! Or even if he hasn’t, some Ghoeran might pop up when you’re looking elsewhere, and then where will we be? You’re the last hope we have of getting the throne back, lad. Don’t take it into your head to get yourself killed in a raid that won’t matter one way or the other!”
“I’ll be careful and keep out of the thick of things,” Gaelin promised. “Sorry, Baesil, but my mind’s made up.”
The general snorted. “Bah! I should have known you’d be thinking of this.” He turned and poked Gaelin in the chest with one finger. “You’d better not be doing this to impress that Dieman princess who showed up today!”
Gaelin returned to his borrowed chambers and managed two hours of sleep in the early evening. As the hour of the raid app roached, he rose and began to arm himself. Boeric appeared as he struggled with the last awkward pieces. The guardsman had been promoted to sergeant and would carry Gaelin’s standard in the upcoming fight. “Are you ready, my lord?”
“Almost. Here, give me a hand.” Flanked by his guards, he strode into the courtyard and found Blackbrand had already been dressed for battle in a skirt of chain mail and stiff, metalstudded leather. He mounted smoothly, took up the reins, and rode into the night with his guards arrayed around him.
They, too, were dressed in their heaviest armor, with lances stepped by their stirrups and swords hanging in easy reach by the saddlehorns. He noticed Bull among his personal guards; two days before, the beefy farmer had decided to enlist in Gaelin’s cause.
Outside, they joined Count Baesil’s command group, a knot of fifty or so guards, officers, and messengers, along with standard-bearers and musicians. All around the field, knights and cavalrymen sat in even ranks. There were three divisions, each marshalled together under a standard. Even as Gaelin rode up, the first division was moving away into the darkness, riding slowly with no lights showing.
“Good evening, my lord Mhor,” Baesil said, raising his hand in salute. “As you can see, we’re on the march.”
“Excellent,” Gaelin replied. “Think we’ll catch Lord Baehemon’s army off guard?”
Baesil shrugged. “We won’t know until we get there, will we? I’ve got scouts combing the path before us. With luck, we’ll have early warning of any Ghoeran scouts or patrols.
The next hour will tell.”
The ride was strange; clouds hid a waning moon, so it was dark, and none of the Mhoriens showed any lights. Instead, the lead elements of each division were guided by scouts on foot, men of Ceried who knew the area well. Count Baesil had also ord e red extraordinary measures taken to quiet the march, and each man had muffled his horse’s hooves by swaddling them in soft cloth. No talking was permitted, and even loose pieces of armor were padded for silence. The night around Gaelin was filled with creaking and rustling, broken by the snort of a horse and a few muted clinks and jingles. For almost an hour, they crept along at a slow walk.
Under the shadows of a dark, tangled wood, they drew up in ranks for the attack. The fires of Ghoere’s army could be seen a half-mile or so off, drawn up in the center of a broad, open field. “Not a bad place for a camp,” Baesil observed quietly.
“Excellent visibility for hundreds of yards all around.
But, on the other hand, this big field is perfect for mounted troops.”
“Could they be waiting for us?”
“I’ve heard two reports of Ghoeran patrols. One our scouts were able to silence, man for man. The other, we’re not sure of.” He lowered his visor. “Cover your face, lad. No sense waiting for a stray arrow in your eye.”
Gaelin shut his own visor. There was a whisper along the ranks of the horsemen, and slowly the line began to move forward.
Gaelin, Baesil, and their guards followed about twenty yards behind. Twisting in his saddle, Gaelin could see a hundred light cavalry waiting by the woods, guarding their escape route and standing by as a reserve. “When do we charge?” he asked Baesil.
“I’ll walk right up to the camp if they don’t give an alarm,” the general replied. He held his men to a walk. They were three hundred yards from the Ghoeran camp when they heard the first few panicked shouts of alarm from the firelit tents ahead. “That’s our signal,” Baesil said. “Captain, sound the charge!”
From beside Gaelin, a bugler let loose with a deafening blast that split the night. With a great roar, the knights and light horse spurred their mounts, thundering ahead toward the camp. The command company picked up their pace to a gentle canter, staying well back of the front lines. Bright yellow light flared as horsemen uncovered lanterns and pitch pots, turning the night into a chaos of shadows and glinting steel. Ahead of them, Gaelin saw men inside the camp racing to man the earthworks surrounding the tents. He swore in disgust – the Ghoerans hadn’t been surprised. “They’re wait- ing for us!” Gaelin yelled. “Call it off!”
“Too late now,” Baesil replied. The charging line slowed and swirled for a long moment, held up by the shallow ditch and palisade of stakes surrounding the camp. Ghoeran crossbowmen and pikemen were still streaming up to man the dike, and at point-blank range they wreaked havoc in the leading ranks of the Mhorien charge. Horses reared and plunged, screaming, impaling themselves on the stakes or the pikes of the Ghoeran defenders. Gaelin found himself pressed in on all sides as the attack faltered, and in a nightmarish chaos of shadow and fire he fought to keep Blackbrand beneath him.
Suddenly, the ranks around him opened up, and he spurred ahead into the fight. Although the Ghoerans had held them for a moment, the weight of their attack had punched a hole in the enemy line, and with shouts of fierce glee the Mhoriens dashed into the camp. Within moments, dozens of Ghoeran tents were fired, and Mhoriens were galloping through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path.
The command group rode down one lane between the tents. Gaelin realized he’d completely lost his bearings in the smoke and noise of the fight. Beside him, Baesil growled in disgust. “What a fiasco!” he shouted over the screaming and rising roar of flames. “If we’d been any slower, they would have cut us to pieces on the dike!”
“Well, we’re here now. Let’s fire his supplies!” Gaelin replied.
Baesil nodded. “All right, but we stay away from any big fights.” They rode around the perimeter of the camp. Their guards were soon caught up in a series of small melees with bands of Ghoerans, and arrows and crossbow bolts began to pelt through the company at random as unseen archers fired at the Mhoriens.
They passed a corral where several hundred horses reared and whinnied in panic, and Baesil sent several men to tear down the fence and drive the animals away from the camp.
They continued to circle the camp and came to a great swirling melee of fire and fighting men around the Ghoeran supply train. Gaelin guessed that there were a hundred or more wagons drawn up in neat lines, surrounded by the tents and rough lean-tos of several companies of infantrymen and guards. These men were waiting for the Mhorien attack, and as far as Gaelin could see in the smoke and the darkness, men rushed to meet the attacking horsemen or to fight the fires that had already been set. The first division had been assigned to head for the wagons, and they were embroiled in a bitter fight to finish their job of destroying Baehemon’s supplies.
“They’re waking up now,” said Bull.
“You’re right, soldier,” Baesil replied. “Time for us to leave.”
Gaelin looked around. It was a scene of hellish confusion, and acrid smoke burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. The din was deafening: weapons beat on shields and armor, men screamed orders from all sides, and flames roared hungrily.
Suddenly, from behind them, furious war cries filled the air, and an onslaught of half-dressed footsoldiers armed with whatever weapons they could find overtook their guards.
Gaelin turned his horse to face the men who poured through the screen of guards. “Baesil, watch your back!” he cried.
A few feet in front of him, Bull leaned away from his saddle and smashed one spearman to the ground with a monstrous blow from his long-handled maul, but a fellow swinging a battle- axe over his head dodged aside and came for Gaelin with an angry ro a r. Gaelin twisted in the saddle to catch the first blow on his shield, and then brought his sword across his body in a heavy chop that split the Ghoeran’s skull. He wheeled to look for another foe, but suddenly a heavy flail struck a crushing blow across his shoulder blades, smashing him out of the saddle.
The world spun and went dark as Gaelin crashed heavily to the ground, breathless and stunned.
Gasping for air, he rolled over to his hands and knees in the mud and looked up just in time to see the Ghoeran raising his weapon for the killing blow. Gaelin lunged out of the way.
His Mhoried blood might help him to recover from crippling injuries, but a well-aimed blow could kill him before his ability had time to repair the damage. “Blackbrand!” he yelled.
Like many war-horses, Blackbrand was trained to protect a dismounted rider. The great stallion reared and lashed out with his hooves, driving back a pair of Ghoerans who were advancing on the fallen prince. Gaelin used the momentary break to regain his feet, snatching his sword out of the mud.
The flail-wielder shortened his swing and leveled a deadly blow at Gaelin’s head, but Gaelin ducked and stabbed him through the chest. Spots still danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t draw a breath, but he groped his way to Blackbrand’s side and heaved himself back into the saddle.
Around him, Baesil’s knights and guards were driving the foot soldiers away. “Gaelin! Are you all right?” Baesil’s voice was hollow behind the iron mask of his helmet.
Gaelin managed a nod. He was still out of breath, his chest aching as he tried to find his wind. Baesil dispatched another man with a skillful blow to the throat. “Enough of this! Sound the retreat!”
The horn sounded again, and in the distance Gaelin heard the faint response of the other divisions as they replied.
Count Baesil stood in his stirrups and yelled, “Forward! Let’s go! Leave these bastards behind!” The command company disengaged, and almost before Gaelin knew it, they were galloping away into the darkness surrounding the camp. Arrows fell among them, clattering from armor or plunging to stick in the ground. Baesil led them in a curving circle away from the burning camp.
A few hundred yards off, well out of bowshot, Baesil held up his hand and brought the group to a halt. Gaelin looked around the company. He could see they were missing a number of men, maybe a third of their number, and many more were injured as well. Behind them, roaring fires raced through the camp, and he could still hear the occasional clash of arms as Ghoerans fought Ghoerans in the confusion. “I’d say we bloodied their nose,” Gaelin said to Baesil.
“Aye, we did, but we lost a lot of men we couldn’t afford to lose,” Baesil replied. He lifted his visor, and Gaelin was surprised to see a line of blood trickling down the side of the count’s face. “Don’t believe that we did anything more than make them mad. Maybe we killed a few and burned some wagons, but that’s still a formidable army behind us, and they’ll be after blood now.”
“Let them follow us,” Gaelin said. “We’ll give it to them.”