Gaelin stood and looked out over the dark river. The silence was eerie now. The mist deadened the sounds of their speech and the boat, as if to erase the memory of the skirmish. Daene was dead in his place, a good friend and fine man who’d done nothing to earn the death he received. Who would want me dead? Gaelin thought. Ghoere? How could my death be of use to him, or to anyone for that matter? Or was I to be abducted, not killed? Gaelin felt cold and sick. Taking one’s chances in a clean fight was one thing, but waiting for assassins and cutthroats to strike in the dark was another matter entire l y. “How much time do you need for repairs, Master Viensen? ”
“I don’t like the way she feels, m’lord,” the captain replied, indicating the list and the slow, heavy awkwardness of the boat. “We’re taking on a lot of water. I’d guess at least one full day to work on the hull, and another day for pitch to set. In fact, I’m going to make for shore. We’re pushing our luck now.” He scowled and spun the wheel toward the Alamien bank. The keelboat yawed sluggishly but came about.
“In two days, we can ride to Endier or back to Riumache,”
Madislav observed sourly. “No point staying with the boat.”
Gaelin nodded, and pressed a hand to his wounded abdomen.
“I won’t be able to ride fast for a day or two, but I think I can travel. Should we continue on to Endier, or return to Mhoried?”
“The bard can wait,” Madislav said flatly. “Your father must know of this attack.”
“There’s a Mhorien consul in Endier. We can contact my father from there. Besides, if my enemies think I’m dead, they shouldn’t trouble us again for a while,” Gaelin pointed out.
He considered the question while Viensen steered for the dark and lonely shoreline ahead. “Wait a moment! Ruide brought carrier pigeons! We can send a message to the Mhor at first light.”
“But the Mhor cannot reply, since he is not knowing where you are.” Madislav scratched at his beard. “You will have to tell him if you will make for Endier or Riumache. Then he will be knowing where to reach you.”
“ Endier,” Gaelin said. “If anything has developed at Shieldhaven, my father will expect to find me in Endier.” He attempted a weak grin. “Besides, I hate turning my back on something I’ve started.”
“Hold on, m’lords,” Viensen said. The dark shoreline was very close now, and the current pushed the boat up against the sandy bank. With a scraping sound, the keel grounded on the sandy bottom. “Can’t sink now,” the captain observed.
“Sorry about the delay, m’lords.”
“It’s not your fault, Master Viensen,” said Gaelin. The eastern skies were now streaked with ribbons of rose and gold; dawn was not far off. Suddenly, weakness flooded through his limbs, and he staggered against the rail. His injury was not yet healed, not by a long measure, and he fought to control a fit of trembling that threatened to bring him to his knees.
Madislav caught him before he fell. “Endier is being fine, but you are not well enough to ride yet,” he growled. “You must rest, Gaelin. If your wound opens, it could kill you.”
Gaelin nodded. “Help me back to the cabin. I’ll rest a bit.
Wake me an hour after sunrise, and we’ll get going.” The huge Vos half-carried him to the deckhouse, supporting the prince’s weight until Gaelin collapsed into his bunk. Before he allowed himself to fall asleep, Gaelin insisted that Madislav bring him a scrap of paper to write his dispatch to the Mhor. The hulking warrior eyed him suspiciously but did as he asked and helped to steady Gaelin’s hand. In a weak, spidery script, the prince wrote:
22nd day of Pasiphiel, 1456 HC
My lord Mhor:
We were attacked by river bandits between Riumache and Endier. Daene was killed, but I will be fine. We must leave our boat and continue by land; I expect to be in Endier in two days. We will await your reply there. I don’t believe this was a coincidence.
Your son,
Gaelin, Prince of Mhoried
“Have Ruide dispatch this by pigeon as soon as it’s light enough for the birds to fly,” he said.
Madislav nodded. “It will be done. Now rest, Gaelin.” He said something else, but Gaelin did not hear him; he was falling back into darkness already, sinking into the bunk as if it were a bottomless chasm.
Chapter Four
Gaelin awoke late in the day to the sounds of horses stamping and prancing on the foredeck. He sat up too quickly and was rewarded with a burning pain in the center of his stomach that doubled him over. Cursing weakly, he dragged himself out of the bunk and began to dress. By the slanting shadows outside the porthole, he guessed it was late afternoon.
Although each careless movement drove a jagged knife through the muscles of his belly, he forced himself to don his mail shirt, lacing the leather ties tightly to press against his injured stomach. It was stiff and awkward, but he hoped it would provide some support while riding. When he finished, he took a moment to smooth the pain out of his face before striding onto the deck to see what was going on.
Madislav, Ruide, and a pair of Viensen’s sailors were carefully leading the horses down a makeshift ramp to the shore.
The animals’ hooves scraped and thumped on the wooden deck, and some rolled their eyes suspiciously at the planks and the water beneath. It was a clear, cold day, with a raw wind from the north raising whitecaps on the river. Gaelin made a long, careful sweep of the water from one bend to the next, but he saw no other vessels beating their way against the bitter weather.
“Prince Gaelin! You’re looking much better,” Viensen called from the quarterdeck. His face was red from the wind.
“I’m feeling a little better, Master Viensen,” Gaelin replied.
He noted pitch and sawdust caked on the boatsman’s clothes.
“How does the boat look?”
The captain’s face fell a little. “The damage is not irreparable, but we’re going to have to haul her up on the bank and cut some lumber to patch the hull. At least this weather’ll help the pitch set quickly when we’re ready.”
Gaelin made his way forward, just as Ruide led the last of their horses, Daene’s steed, down the ramp. Madislav had the horses tethered to a stand of bare cottonwoods on the shore, and the party’s gear lay in a jumble of blankets, boxes, and bags off to one side. Gaelin picked up a pair of saddlebags, trying not to wince, and followed Ruide down the ramp.
“Gaelin! How are you feeling?” Madislav straightened from his work and came over to take the bags from Gaelin’s hand.
“I thought you were going to wake me an hour after sunrise.”
Madislav shrugged. “You were not saying which day.”
“We’ve lost a day of travel!”
“You would not have been able to ride earlier, and you are knowing it,” the Vos replied. He poked Gaelin in the stomach, and Gaelin grunted in pain. “You might not be able to ride now, but I guess I will let you try.”
Gaelin decided to change the subject. “Ruide, did you send my message to the Mhor?”
The valet’s head was swaddled in a heavy bandage, but he seemed much steadier on his feet than he had been the night before. He nodded in affirmation. “The Mhor may be reading your message even as we speak.”
“Assuming there are no Ghoeran falconers between us and home,” Gaelin muttered under his breath. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Either the message would get through, or it wouldn’t. He turned back to look over the horses and the gear. “Captain Viensen could use some help getting his boat out of the water. Let’s see if our horses can make the job easier for him, and then we’ll try to ride a few miles before sunset.”
*****
Rank upon rank, spearpoints glinting dully in the wan sunlight, the army of Ghoere stood assembled by the banks of the Maesil. If any of the soldiers wondered why they were mustered by the riverside, they restrained their curiosity; the companies and regiments stood silently, banners snapping and fluttering in the bitter wind.
Noered Tuorel, the Baron of
Ghoere, cantered along the column on a great black courser. He was a man of average height, with lean hips and broad shoulders. His face was handsome if somewhat rugged, relatively unmarked by his forty years, but his eyes burned with a fierce yellow intensity, and his grin was feral and dangerous. Ghoere was sometimes called the Iron Barony, and Tuorel found that a fitting match for the Iron Throne of all Anuire. He meant to claim that seat for his own someday.
Lord Baehemon trailed him, a bulldog following a wolf, his stony face free of expression. Like his master, he was dressed for battle. He commanded the Iron Guards who surrounded Tuorel, a duty that had been considered ceremonial until Baehemon applied himself to the task of forging Tuorel’s bodyguards into the fiercest fighters in Anuire.
At Tuorel’s side another powerful, armored figure paced him on a red-eyed goblin hellsteed. The last rider stood half a hand taller than Tuorel, but he was every bit as stocky as Baehemon, with short, curved legs, long arms, and wide, spade-shaped hands. His face was flat, and his mouth was too wide to be human, and his skin was a deep olive-green. His eyes blazed with impatience as Tuorel rode forward from the siege and baggage trains that brought up the army’s rear. “Impressive,” the goblin growled. “Your pretty boys look good on parade.”
“They’re fighters, Warlord Kraith,” Tuorel replied with an even smile. He was proud of his men, and he took pains to let his soldiers know how much he valued their service. As he rode past, the soldiers raised a hearty cheer, dipping their banners and clashing spear on shield. They’d not been told much, but they sensed that war was near.
At the fore front of the army, Tuorel found the captains of his vanguard clustered around the shallow bluff that marked the Maesil’s banks. The great river was more than a mile wide at this point, and the brown hills and fields of the Mhorien bank stretched away to the east and west as far as Tuorel could see.
He reined in his war-horse and looked out over the river.
“I would like to know how you intend to cross that,”
Kraith remarked. “It’s going to take you a week to ferry this many men to the Mhorien shore.”
“The matter is in hand, Warlord Kraith.” Tuorel dismounted and pushed his way past the lower-ranking officers. Baehemon and Kraith followed him. On the very edge of the bluff, a large area had been cleared and decorated with intricate circles and runes of unknown meaning. A gaunt man in a plain brown cassock busied himself with a device of frost-covered metal in the center of the ring. Tuorel’s eyes narrowed; he had a knack for sensing sorcery, the legacy of his ancestral bloodline, and the air almost quivered with the power of the enchantment before him. He swallowed his distaste and called out, “Master wizard! How does your work go? I’ve every man of my army here and dressed for battle, as you instructed. Now how do we cross?” He nodded at the Maesil.
The river was too wide to bridge with pontoons or floats.
Tuorel’s conscripted laborers had been hard at work building barges, and his agents were confiscating every boat from Ghieste to Hope’s Demise, but the wizard had promised a crossing of his entire army in a mere hour.
The brown-clad sorcerer completed a portion of his enchantment and stepped back to admire his work, examining the pattern of ancient glyphs and runes circling the site. In the center, an iron tripod supported a strange white stone that smoked with cold. Tuorel’s eyes narrowed. What kind of sorcery was this? “You must be patient, Baron,” the wizard said, interrupting Tuorel’s suspicions. He sounded tired and old. “This is an enchantment of great power, and it is extremely taxing.”
“You’ve only been at it an hour,” Tuorel observed.
“On the contrary, I’ve been working at this spell for the better part of a month,” the wizard countered. “Didn’t you notice the unseasonable cold over the land this spring?”
Tuorel looked at him with new respect. “You mean that this weather was your doing?”
“Aye. You cannot comprehend the forces involved.”
“Bah! Wizards! I should never have agreed to this,” Kraith spat, pulling his iron gauntlets from his hands. With a snort of disgust, he thrust them through his belt and tucked his helmet under his arm. His hand rested on the hilt of his heavy, curved sword.
“Regardless of what you may think of our ally, you must agree that it’s a sound plan,” Tuorel offered.
Kraith fixed Tuorel with his fierce stare. “Don’t take me for stupid, Tuorel. I’ve read Anuirean books on warfare, and my father and grandfather passed everything they knew of battle to me before I had them killed. While you diddled around in Elinie, I spent the winter harrying Mhoried’s borders and bleeding the Mhor white.” He grinned savagely. “I know a good plan when I see one. I also know that if you don’t cross the Maesil, I’ll be cut to pieces by the Mhor’s concentrated troops. I want to see you on the other side with my own eyes before I commit to this war.”
Baehemon spoke, his voice menacing. “We’ll be there, goblin.”
Kraith laughed. “I’ll be at your throats in a year or two if you’re not.”
Tuorel turned to the mage. “Well?” he asked. “What wizardry are you working here?”
“You see this stone?” the wizard asked. He indicated the odd white rock supported in its stand. Tuorel noted that transparent runes were carved into the surface of the stone, winding and twisting around each other in a distinctly unsettling fashion. The iron tripod itself was white with frost.
“This is a shard of true ice, ice from the great northern wastes that lie past the Thaelasian Sea. It is the focus for the enchantment I am working. When I am finished, you’ll have a bridge of ice ten miles wide, or perhaps more if conditions are favorable. You’ll be able to march your army across in as long as it takes you to walk from here” – he gestured to the far bank – “to there.”
Tuorel chewed his tongue. “How long will the river be frozen?”
The sorcerer straightened and pushed the brown hood of his cassock back from his face, revealing his stubbled scalp, hollow features, and bright, feverish eyes. Bannier, court wizard of Mhoried, studied the air, tasting the wind, and then chuckled drily. “Well, that depends on the weather. Once the ice forms, it will melt at whatever pace nature decrees. But it will be four feet or more thick, and it will stand for days even if spring returns this afternoon. I’d predict three days at a minimum, and perhaps as long as a week.” Bannier spared one more glance at the sky, and then carefully inspected the true ice in the center of the ring. “It’s time,” he finally announced.
“Tell your officers to fall back at least fifty paces, or they may be frozen along with the river.”
The Ghoeran nobles and captains didn’t need Tuorel to tell them to move back once they saw the sorcerer was ready to complete his spell. Tuorel, Baehemon, and Kraith retired as well. Bannier didn’t bother to check on the Ghoerans; if any fool was standing too close, that was his own ill fortune. He began a sibilant chant, speaking unintelligible words in an even, measured pace as he circled the stone. The wizard’s words rolled about Tuorel and his officers, a perversion of the very air that carried through the wind with preternatural clarity. “Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu burzha’a tutholan,” he droned. Tuorel suppressed a shiver. Granted, he didn’t know much about magic, but he did know that most wizards used Sidhelien – Elvish – for their enchantments. He remembered enough of his schooling to know that those words were definitely not Elvish.
Tuorel shuddered again and was surprised to note that a fine film of ice had formed on the plates of his armor. As he watched, the rime whitened and spread like hoarfrost. The armor and clothes of the men around him were whitening as well. The chant continued, and now the cold seared Tuorel’s nose and throat, and his fingers and toes ached as if they were on fire. But great white patches of ice dotted the Maesil as far as he could see in either direction, and they were slowly growing together, until only a spiderweb of dark channels separated the floes. At the sight, Tuorel forgot the bone-numbing chill, and forgot th
e pervasive, insidious words that coiled and slithered in his ears – the wizard’s spell was working.
“Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu ra’aghk kaidur!”
The wizard’s voice was a resonant rumble, echoing in the frozen stillness of the ice-rimed field. One last time he repeated the chant, and then he stepped forward and shattered the stone of true ice with his iron-heeled staff. Asearing white light claimed Tuorel’s vision for twenty heartbeats, even as waves of cold intense enough to bring him to his knees washed over him. By the time his sight cleared, Tuorel found that most of the men within three or four hundred yards had been similarly affected. He spun around, trying to quickly gauge whether his army had suffered any lasting damage – but then the Maesil caught his eye.
From bank to bank, the river was an unbroken sheet of ice.
“He’s done it,” Tuorel breathed. Shaking off the fear and nausea, he surged forward to grab his standard-bearer and shake him like a rag. “Raise the march, boy! We cross now!”
The young herald brought the banner of Ghoere high over his head and swung it back and forth. Held by discipline stronger than their terror, the first ranks staggered forward, but in ten yards they’d found their stride and spirit. The master sergeant of the first company began to call a marching cadence in a rough voice, pitched high to carry. “Come on, you dogs!” he roared. “The way’s clear before us!”
Company by company, the rest of Tuorel’s army caught the mood and marched down to the river’s edge, stepping off onto the ice. There was a sudden flurry of activity as Tuorel’s officers and banner-leaders sorted themselves out and rejoined their units, leading them across. Tuorel left matters in their hands, called for his horse, and rode over to where Bannier stood, leaning heavily on his staff. The wizard was unharmed by the spell he had unleashed, and a grim smile of satisfaction was engraved on his face.
“See, Baron? Your men are crossing, and Mhoried will be caught unawares. Where do you strike first?”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 5
