The Falcon and The Wolf
Richard Baker
Richard Baker
The Falcon and The Wolf
Chapter One
Stinging needles of ice and snow whipped across the frozen road, clawing at Prince Gaelin Mhoried. He shivered in the teeth of the bitter wind and drew his heavy woolen cloak closer to his body. Although the month of Pasiphiel was nearly gone, winter hadn’t released the land of Mhoried from its grip.
Nearly a foot of snow still lay over the countryside, and in places man-high drifts lingered in the shadows of the woods beside the road. It was unseasonably cold weather, even for Mhoried, a land accustomed to long and cold winters. Worse yet, the skies brooded with the promise of more snow.
Despite the cold and gathering gloom, Gaelin enjoyed the ride. The ancient forest on either side of the road was deep and dark, steeped in a sense of purpose that silenced his thoughts. Mhoried’s wild places brought him solace and quiet reflection, an emptiness in which he could examine himself with unflinching honesty. The harsh weather only sharpened Gaelin’s appreciation of the open lands; the frigid air scoured his body, reminding him that he was a part of the land, not a ghost only passing by.
The old Northrun was clear, if not in the best shape. The few wagons that came this way had beaten the snow into a thick, frozen slush over the black mud of the road. Gaelin was accustomed to winter travel; now twenty-six, he’d spent the greater part of his boyhood hunting and hawking in the lands around his father’s castle, and he knew from experience just how miserably cold and wet a winter road could be. He reached down to pat Blackbrand on the neck, glad that the horse’s feet and not his were in the freezing mire of the road.
The wind picked up again. Gaelin’s shoulders were tense and tight from hunching his body against the cold, and a dull ache had been sinking deeper and deeper into his limbs for hours. The fine steel of his breastplate might turn an arrowhead or the blade of a sword, but the wind’s edge this day was far keener than either. Trying to ignore his discomfort, Gaelin gazed off into the dark, snow-blanketed forest that stretched away from the road.
A violent gust snatched his cloak away and fluttered it behind him. The romantic solitude of a winter’s ride in the woods was fading fast for Gaelin. He cursed and twisted in the saddle to catch the cloak’s edge. “You’d think the trees would block some of this damned wind!” he growled.
Beside him, Madislav gave a booming laugh that brought showers of snow down from the branches nearby. “Is nothing!” the hulking Vos mercenary said, slapping one bearlike hand on his thick chest. “In my homeland, we call this spring!”
Madislav was six and a half feet tall, with arms like gnarled oaks. He disdained the wool and linen favored in Anuire, dressing in the leathers and furs of his own people. Even his horse was bridled and saddled Vos-style. Gaelin, unlike many of his peers, preferred practicality over decoration, and his attire reflected his tastes. His only concession to fashion was a green surcoat with Mhoried’s white falcon embroidered on his chest, the minimum expected of a prince of the realm.
Madislav drew in a deep breath, letting the frigid air sear his lungs, and then stood in his stirrups to pull open his jerkin. Gaelin winced. Madislav grinned and struck his thickpelted torso with an exaggerated sigh of enjoyment. “When I was being small and my mother had no food, Kriyesha herself nursed me with an icicle!” he boasted.
Gaelin tried to imagine the Vos goddess of ice and darkness dandling a hairy infant on her knee and grimaced. “With any luck, we’ll make Shieldhaven before the sun goes down. I’ve spent my last night under the stars this winter,” he said.
He scratched Blackbrand’s neck again. The horse nickered and tossed his head, picking up his hooves. “Only two leagues more, Blackbrand, and there’s a warm stable with fresh hay for you.”
The road climbed the shoulder of a steep ridge mantled with a stand of weathered pines. A great portion of the Mhor’s domain was still unsettled and wild, with vast reaches of trackless highlands and deep, forbidding woods.
Years of riding and wandering, and then service as a squire of the Knights Guardian, had carved Mhoried’s every copse and hilltop into Gaelin’s heart. From the green fields of the Maesil valley to the forested flanks of the Stonecrown Mountains, fifty leagues from the kingdom’s southern marches, he knew almost every inch of Mhoried. He and his brother had often hunted by this very ridge when they were younger, and home wasn’t far now.
He fell silent, realizing that the end of his journey was near.
For the past seven years, Gaelin had seen his family only in passing visits. Like all princes of the Mhoried blood for hundreds of years, he had been required to join the Order of the Knights Guardian, and subjected to the same discipline and regimen of exercise that any aspirant would face.
Gaelin had spent the winter campaigning in the northern passes of Mhoried, riding with a company of his fellow knights. The unusually cold weather had brought the goblins out of Markazor and the Stonecrowns in search of easy plunder once they’d depleted their own stores of food. Gaelin’s band had skirmished with goblin raiders several times over the last month. Spring was nearing now, but a number of Gaelin’s comrades lay under the snow in Torien’s Watch and Marloer’s Gap. The thought clouded his face and brought a hollow ache of exhaustion to his heart.
“You are not happy with going home?” Madislav said, riding closer. The Vos made a habit of exaggerating the guttural accent of his own tongue when speaking Anuirean. Ten years ago, the Mhor Daeric – Gaelin’s father – had ordered the Vos to follow Gaelin and keep him out of trouble. As a teenager, Gaelin had chafed under Madislav’s watchful tutelage, but despite daily confrontations he’d never convinced Madislav to give up his task. After a time, the prince had come to view the outland warrior as a mentor and companion.
“I’ve grown accustomed to life away from the court,” Gaelin answered. “I haven’t spent two nights in a row in Shieldhaven for years. Even before I started training for the Order, I was happier out here.” Gaelin nodded at the forest.
“I’m afraid of what my father might have in mind for me, now that I’m back to stay. You know we never saw eye to eye.” He rubbed his hands together to fight off the numbness that was setting into his fingers, and blew a warm breath into his cupped hands.
“Maybe you are marrying some pretty lass, eh?” Madislav said with a wicked smile.
“Hmmph. I hope my father hasn’t had that thought.”
“You are son of the Mhor, a great noble. I hear you are most – how you say – eligible prince in all Anuire, eh?”
“I’d think my brother is. He’s going to be the next Mhor, not me. A duty I wouldn’t wish on anybody.” Gaelin smiled and turned back to the road.
The two riders crested the ridge, breaking free of the ancient forest that surrounded the city and castle of Bevaldruor – Shieldhaven in Andu, the old tongue. The proud fortress slumbered on a rocky hilltop overlooking the town below. Wisps of smoke danced away from hundreds of chimneys and hearths, dissipating on the fierce northern wind.
Gaelin reined Blackbrand in, drinking in the sight. The wind stung his eyes to tears. Madislav drew up beside him and watched in silence.
“I never thought this day would come,” Gaelin said slowly.
With a wry smile Gaelin realized that he’d been brooding about his return to Shieldhaven for months without admitting it to himself. As a boy, he had fought for years to win free of his father’s iron discipline. Now he feared the old battle was about to be rejoined, but Gaelin had little heart for resuming the fight. “Bevaldruor looks the same, doesn’t it? Four years as a squire, three as an aspirant… Has anything changed?”
“Ah,” Madislav said qui
etly. He followed Gaelin’s gaze to the cold, proud towers of the castle. “You have changed, Gaelin. You have proven yourself as a Mhoried and a knight. Your father is being proud of you.”
“Is he, Madislav? I didn’t say my oaths to the Order to please the Mhor. I did it because I knew that serving as a squire would get me out of my father’s house. I could have gone home the day after I received my spurs, but I’ve stayed away for more than a year now. He has to know I’ve been delaying my return.”
Madislav sighed and began to lace up his leather jerkin again. A fine rime of ice frosted his great beard. After a long moment, he spoke. “Gaelin, it is nature of sons to fight with fathers. With my folk, is war of strength and blades. I tried to be killing my father when I was fifteen.” He smiled and shrugged. “The volnye’vos – we Vos – are strange that way, I am told. Other fathers and other sons, they fight wars with hard words and anger. Let me tell you Vos saying: ‘When I was man of twenty years, I could not believe how foolish was my father. When I was man of thirty years, I could not believe how much the old fool had learned in ten years.’ ”
Gaelin smiled despite himself. “I’ve heard that before.”
Madislav leaned out of the saddle to clap Gaelin on the shoulder. “I am thinking that you will be surprised to be seeing how much your father has learned in seven winters, Gaelin.”
The prince nodded, and drew in a deep breath. “It’s a league and a half from here. We won’t make it before dark, but we won’t miss supper.” He tapped his heels on Blackbrand’s flanks, and the warhorse pranced forward, kicking up slush and mud. Thin, dry flakes began to drift from the sky, swirling and darting with the wind, as the snow finally began to fall.
By the time Gaelin and Madislav reached Shieldhaven’s gatehouse, daylight was an hour gone and the first small snowflakes had grown into a stinging onslaught of icy shards. For all of Madislav’s bluster, Gaelin thought the Vos looked happy to be out of the weather. A dozen proud guards in the forest green and argent of Mhoried stood on duty at the gate, wrapped in thick cloaks against the weather. As the riders approached, Madislav cupped his hands to call out, “Hallo the gatehouse! The Second Prince arrives!”
The guardsmen clattered to attention, striking the butts of their halberds against the cold stone in salute. Shieldhaven was a fine old castle, one of the strongest in the northern marches. Tower on tower rose up from the sheer hilltop, soaring into the sky from the dark bluffs below. The gatehouse was the only vulnerable point in the castle’s defenses, since a rocky bluff a hundred feet or more in height ringed the rest of the castle. The Mhors had held court on this hilltop for more than a dozen centuries, and a castle of one form or another had stood on this site for most of that time. The current structure had been started in Gaelin’s grandfather’s reign and finished only a dozen years ago.
The outer ramparts were low and thick, built to withstand bombardment by even the heaviest trebuchets, and the gatehouse itself was partitioned into an outer courtyard and an inner gate that was as strong as the first. The inner buildings of the castle were light and airy, decorated with intricate carvings and proud banners; they soared into the sky, marking the heart of the duchy of Mhoried. Gaelin let his eyes roam over the familiar battlements as he dismounted and shook the snow from his battered cloak. He gave Blackbrand an affectionate rub on the neck, and let a liveried groom lead the horse away.
Madislav dismounted and stretched, rubbing his backside.
“Is good to be home,” he said with a tired grin. “Let us see what Master Miethen has in his kitchens, eh?”
Gaelin noticed a hollow pang in his stomach and realized he was famished. “A sound plan, Madislav,” he replied. He passed by the great hall and headed for the small door leading to the castle’s kitchens. Catching the eye of the hall’s doorman, Gaelin called, “Oesed! Please notify the Mhor of my return. I’ll have a bite in the kitchen and call on my father shortly.”
The doorman stood and faced Gaelin, drawing his cloak around his battered old frame. He held up his hand, shaking his head. “My apologies, Prince Gaelin, but the Mhor wishes to see you at once. He’s been waiting on your return.”
The spring faded from Gaelin’s steps. “At once?” The warm yellow light and friendly clatter of the kitchens tempted him. He sensed Madislav a pace behind him, waiting to hear his response.
“Lord Baehemon of Ghoere arrived today, my prince,” Oesed continued. “I am sorry.”
Biting back angry words, Gaelin glanced up at the castle’s pennons and noticed the red and blue banner of Ghoere’s ambassador, almost lost in the darkening skies. Lord Baehemon was one of the high nobles of Ghoere, Mhoried’s southern neighbor. Baehemon was known as the Hound of Ghoere; he was the captain of Ghoere’s army and a powerful figure in Ghoere’s court. Tuorel would not have sent him on any common errand.
“You’ll find appropriate dress laid out in your bedchamber,” Oesed added. “If you please, my lord?”
Gaelin sighed. “Very well. I’ll be there in a quarter-hour. Please have someone unpack my kit and bring my saddlebags to my chambers. They should be in the stables.” The chamberlain nodded and withdrew.
Madislav clapped him on the shoulder. “I will be in the hall, Gaelin. I am thinking there must be a pretty lass who is missing my company, no?” He set his face in a wry smile, and added, “Be glad you are home, eh?”
“Thanks, Madislav. I’ll be fine.” Steeling himself with one last glance at the door to the kitchens, Gaelin turned and set off toward his rooms. He passed a dozen or more familiar faces on the way to his apartment, along with a few he didn’t know – courtiers, guards, and servants who were new in Shieldhaven. Gaelin avoided conversations along the way; he didn’t want to keep the Mhor waiting.
Gaelin’s rooms were two floors up, in the southern tower of the keep. A doublet in green lay on the bed, with tight-fitting breeches, fine leather boots, and a shirt of Khinasi cotton to wear beneath the doublet. He peeled off the half-plate he’d been wearing since sunrise, relishing the relief that flooded his limbs. He’d have to clean and oil the mail and plate before he went to sleep. Then Gaelin washed his face and quickly dressed.
He stepped into the hall that linked the studies, parlors, and private chambers of the royal family. It was a dark and quiet corridor, panelled with rich teak from the forests of far Khinasi, decorated with portraits and tapestries illustrating the history of the Mhor’s line. Gaelin always felt uneasy be- fore the eyes of his ancestors, as if he didn’t measure up to their standards. Shrugging his shoulders and tugging at his waist to smooth the doublet’s fit, he rapped at the door of his father’s study.
“Enter.”
If the corridor represented Gaelin’s heritage, the Mhor’s study embodied everything that was his father. Tall bookshelves lined the room, crowded with samples of the finest literature offered by the fractured Anuirean kingdoms. A great fireplace of black marble filled one end of the room.
Keepsakes and mementos of the Mhor’s own travels from before the time he had inherited the crown cluttered the room, but it was a familiar and intimate clutter; each piece belonged in its own place. Opposite the fireplace, high, dark windows of leaded glass rattled with gusts of wind.
The Mhor stood before the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantle, gazing into the flames. Like his sons, Daeric Mhoried was tall and rangy, although the first touches of old age had brought a stoop to his shoulder and a softening of his muscles. His hair was silver, and he wore no beard or moustache.
He resembled an old, proud eagle, with a fierce but deliberate strength of character in his face and gestures. The Mhor was dressed in a fine gray doublet that resembled Gaelin’s in cut and fashion, but on his breast the emblem of a silver falcon was embroidered on a black patch. He glanced up as Gaelin entered.
“Hello, Father,” Gaelin said quietly.
“Hello, Gaelin. You’re looking well. It looks like you’ve filled out some.”
“I have, I think. You are well?”
A bare, wintry smile creased the Mhor’s face without touching his eyes. “I am,” he replied. “Come, let’s have some brandy against the cold.” He indicated a great, padded chair by the fire, and lowered himself into its companion. Gaelin drew a decanter of Coeranian brandy and a pair of glasses from a nearby cabinet, joining his father by the fire. For a long moment they sat together in silence, until the Mhor cleared his throat to speak again. “How are things in the northern marches?”
“Well enough, for now,” Gaelin replied, glad of the opportunity to speak without addressing the issues that lay between them. “The goblin raids were bad this winter, but we’ve seen the last of them for this year. We’ll need more towers and garrisons along that border soon – too many goblins got past our pickets this year.”
The Mhor frowned and sipped at his brandy. “I told my father the same thing when I was your age, Gaelin. Every year I put more men in the north, and every year the goblins grow bolder. I fear a war with Markazor may not be far off.” The Mhor returned his attention to the fire, as the candles flickered in the draught. Gaelin waited, watching his father in silence.
After a long time, the Mhor spoke again.
“Gaelin, as you’ve probably guessed, you’re not here to tell me how the skirmishes in the north go,” he began. “Your time as a Knight Guardian is at an end. Like your brother and myself, and most of the Mhorieds for a number of generations, you’ve won your place as a leader of Mhoried. There aren’t many kingdoms that require their heirs and princes to learn how to ride, how to fight – and most importantly, how to lead – the way we do. There are a number of good reasons for this, which I’m sure you’ve memorized by now.”
Gaelin recalled his first lessons with Lord Anduine, the knight with whom he’d first trained. Anduine believed that the why of being a knight was even more important than the how, and Gaelin had mucked out plenty of stalls learning those lessons.
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