The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  “Travel may be dangerous now,” Ruide observed.

  “As far as our enemies know, I’m dead already. They shouldn’t be looking for me,” Gaelin said.

  “That may not be true,” Erin interrupted, shaking her head. “Viensen told me that he’d had a visitor, earlier this evening. A man in brown robes, asking about you. The captain told me he tried not to say too much, but he just couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut when the man asked him questions.

  When this fellow had heard everything Viensen had to tell, he disappeared. ’Withered up and blew away like smoke’ is the way Viensen put it.” She glanced over at Madislav.

  “Your nyelnye’chik may be closer than you think.”

  “Then this is an excellent time to head back to Mhoried,” Gaelin said. “As far as Viensen knew, we were making for Endier. Whoever this man is, he’ll be looking in the wrong place. We’ll leave at sunup and try to outdistance Ghoere ’ s agent or agents before they figure out which way we’ve gone.”

  Madislav nodded at Erin, “What about the bard? We did come here to get her, after all.”

  “We can’t place her in the kind of danger we might be riding into, especially if Ghoere’s men are looking for me,” Gaelin said. “She’d be better off waiting a few weeks and traveling with pilgrims or traders. Erin, we’ll leave you with Viensen.”

  “Don’t you think I should be allowed to make that decision?”

  Erin was watching him, her hand cocked on her hip, challenge in her posture and expression. “I am not so helpless that I need you to protect me. I am a bard of the White Hall, and I would be failing in my duties if I let you leave me behind.”

  Gaelin glanced at the other men. Ruide shrugged. Madislav turned and asked, “You are being good rider?”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied, “I won’t slow you down.”

  Madislav looked back over to Gaelin and shrugged as well.

  Gaelin straightened up and looked off to the east. A grayish streak blurred the sky, the first sign of morning’s approach.

  “All right, then. We’ll break camp at sunrise.”

  Chapter Five

  In a single day, Shieldhaven was transformed from a quaint highland court to a bristling fortress. On the Mhor’s orders, the castle was readied for any attack. The guard was doubled at all posts, the mighty gates were closed and the portcullis lowered, heavy wooden shutters were fitted to the higher windows, and bolts, arrows, stones, and oil were laid by the embrasures and murder holes. More than half of Shieldhaven’s lords and courtiers were gone. Some had simply left for safer lands, but most of those missing had returned to their manors and estates to raise the soldiers they owed the Mhor in time of war. Between Mhoried’s mobilization and the abrupt departure of the court, Shieldhaven seemed empty and hostile.

  The Mhor strode along the battlements, examining the castle’s preparations. In truth, he’d left the defense of Shieldhaven itself to his lieutenants and captains. They knew everything there was to know about defending a castle, and the Mhor trusted them implicitly. As far as he could tell, they had overlooked nothing. The only question remaining was how many troops he’d leave to hold the fortress.

  At one of the minor turrets on the eastern wall, Mhor Daeric found Tiery waiting for him, bundled in a heavy cloak against the unnaturally cold weather. Beside him stood a tall, lean man with a square face and a short, iron-gray beard – Lord Baesil Ceried, the commander of Mhoried’s armies. Baesil held the rank of count, which meant he belonged to the highest tier of nobility subject to the Mhor’s rule. Each count held one of Mhoried’s ten provinces in the Mhor’s name. Many nobles accumulated titles and honorary positions to go with their hereditary lands, but Baesil had earned the right to lead Mhoried’s army through years of campaigning. While Mhor Daeric was uncertain of several of his counts, he considered Baesil Ceried and his county of Byrnnor to be unshakable.

  Baesil was armored in light half-plate, and wore a black, knee-length surcoat over his arms, embroidered with the falcon of Mhoried. Unlike many high officers, Baesil didn’t pretend to any great skill at hand-to-hand fighting. He often said that he fought and won with his wits, not his sword. Both men bowed as the Mhor approached. “Good day, my lord,” said Tiery.

  “Gentlemen,” the Mhor replied. “There is news?”

  Baesil nodded, his face sour. “Ill news, my lord Mhor. The northlands are worse off than we had hoped. We’ve just received word that Markazor’s hordes forced a crossing of the upper Maesil in Marloer’s Gap, scattering Lord Ghaele’s forces. Kraith has sent every goblin from the Sielwode to the Stonecrowns against us.”

  The Mhor kept his face calm, but his stomach turned. This was almost the worst news imaginable. Dealing with Ghoere’s army would have been difficult enough, but if Markazor had launched an invasion at the same time… for a moment, he teetered somewhere between rage, panic, and terror. He gripped the battlements and looked out over the deceptively peaceful countryside. “I may have worse news than that,” he said after a moment. “It seems that Dhalsiel, Maesilar, and Balteruine refuse to answer the muster.”

  “Traitorous dogs,” Baesil growled. “Maesilar and Balteruine I expected, but what can Dhalsiel gain from sitting on his arse? Markazor’s a stone’s throw from his gates.”

  “He claims that he must keep his soldiers near at hand to guard his lands.” Daeric glanced at Baesil. “Can we stand against Kraith and Tuorel without our full strength? Do we have a chance?”

  “It’s bad, my lord,” Baesil said softly. “Ghoere and Markazor have caught us between the hammer and the anvil. This is no coincidence – they planned this as a joint attack. And I suspect Tuorel’s been dealing with Count Maesilar for months, trying to find his price.”

  “ Trust Tuorel to bargain with goblins,” added Tiery wearily.

  “We can’t fight the full strength of Markazor and Ghoere at the same time,” the Mhor said flatly. “One or the other, we could meet and stand against. Baesil? What’s your opinion?”

  The general thought for a long time, weighing his words.

  “You’ll have to let the northlands burn,” he finally said.

  “Ghoere’s army is the greater threat, and they menace the lands that we can’t afford to lose. If we defeat Tuorel, Maesilar might waver, since he won’t want to face you without his master’s help. Balteruine will follow where Maesilar leads.

  Besides, we’ve already got forces responding to the fall of Riumache.

  Calling them back to send them north will take too much time.”

  “At least they’re at opposite ends of the country,” Tiery observed.

  “We won’t have to worry about facing both armies at the same time.”

  The Mhor rubbed his hands over his face and drew in a long breath. The bitter air stung his nose and throat, but the pain served to sharpen his attention. He hadn’t slept since the reports of Ghoere’s invasion had first arrived, a day and a half ago. Tuorel had taken Riumache by crossing the Maesil more quickly than any army in history. “How’d the Maesil freeze?” he wondered aloud. “I’ve seen ice floes in plenty of winters, but nothing an army could risk.” Neither of his advisors could offer any insight.

  “Your orders, my lord?” Baesil prompted.

  “March south and engage Tuorel,” the Mhor said. “Drive him back across the Maesil if you can, but I’ll settle for bottling up his army in Riumache. Also, detach one company of Knights Guardian for duty in the north. I want them to lead the levies the highlanders raise against the goblins. If we have to give ground to Kraith to gain time, do it – I just want his advance slowed, so that the people in his path have a chance to flee their homes and muster their militias.”

  “Very well,” Baesil said, bowing. “I’ll send the orders immediately.”

  He started to leave, and then paused. “I’ll set out at first light tomorrow, my lord. I need to be with the army going against Ghoere.“

  “Do so. I will follow in a day.” The Mhor watched Bae
sil stride off across the wall, helmet tucked under his arm. The general was already calling for his captains and lieutenants and shouting orders. Daeric turned to Tiery and took him by the arm. “Come, walk with me a moment,” he said. They passed through the turret and crossed another section of battlements.

  When they were safely out of earshot on the open battlements, he stopped and said, “Tiery, I’ll need help to defeat this invasion. Baesil will try his best, but we’re too badly outnumbered. Arrange for couriers to be sent to Alamie, Diemed, and Roesone.”

  “Will any of them help us?”

  The Mhor sighed. “Daen Roesone’s not strong enough to risk war with Ghoere, not unless Diemed guarantees his borders, and I don’t think Vandiel will do that. Alamie is obsessed with Tuornen, and Diemed won’t want to act alone against Ghoere. I doubt any of them will come to our aid.”

  “At least you have a claim of kinship with Vandiel of Diemed. He may be willing to support you.”

  “We didn’t help him against Roesone.” Mhor Daeric ran his fingers through his hair. “Also, send for Bannier. His magic may speed our messages or slow our enemies.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Tiery said. He hesitated, watching the Mhor. “You are worried about Gaelin?”

  Daeric spared him a single hard look. “Someone seems to be trying to kill my sons. Of course I’m worried.”

  “He had sense enough to send word immediately,” Tiery said. “Do you think that Lady Tenarien was able to dispatch any of her men to meet him before she was invested by Ghoere’s army?”

  The Mhor snorted. “Who knows? She may have received the message in time, or it may have been too late.”

  Sensing his anger, Tiery nodded. “I’ll see to those messages.”

  He turned and hurried away, leaning on a cane.

  The Mhor watched him leave, his mind already churning with the next questions he’d have to address. Before he could make any decisions, a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

  He found his heart pounding as he leaned against the crenelated wall. I need to sleep, he realized, or I’ll be no good to anyone.

  Still, he hesitated before going inside. The battlement was cold and lonely, but it was a good place to think. He’d leave Thendiere to manage the court, since his oldest son’s leg was still not sufficiently healed for hard campaigning. The arrangement would also keep Mhoried’s heir in relative safety while Daeric rode against Ghoere in the south. Now, with warfare in the northlands as well, he needed Gaelin to lead the fight against the goblins.

  Bowing his head, the Mhor breathed a silent prayer for Gaelin’s swift and safe return.

  *****

  In one corner of Bannier’s conjuring chamber there stood a strange shadow that never disappeared entirely, no matter how the dim sunlight or the guttering oil lamps illuminated the cluttered chamber. Even as the Mhor’s guardsmen hammered their sword hilts against the door to the wizard’s tower, the shadow rippled and suddenly yawned deeper and colder. The dying red sunlight faded into umber gloom, disappearing into the hungry darkness, and in silence a lean, robed form appeared and stepped from the shadow. Tired and cold, Bannier closed the portal, and the dark door was only a shadow again.

  The wizard’s entire frame trembled in exhaustion, and he could no longer feel his hands and feet from a pervasive, bone-numbing cold. While the Shadow World was never a safe or certain passage, even in the best of times, it did allow those who knew its twisted paths to travel at amazing speeds.

  In the span of a day, Bannier had walked from the shores of the Maesil to his tower in Shieldhaven. It had taken a decade for the wizard to learn how to navigate the regions of the Shadow World that touched on his dark doorway in Shield- haven. Only the most skilled of sorcerers – and the halflings, who were somehow connected with the Shadow World – matched Bannier’s knowledge.

  From below, the pounding on his door resumed. Bannier frowned in distaste. If the fools tried to break it down, they’d regret it, but deaths of a magical nature certainly wouldn’t endear him to the Mhor, who had probably been ransacking the castle looking for him since word of the invasion arrived.

  Bannier needed the Mhor’s trust for a few hours more. Before answering the door, however, he took a small vial from a locked cabinet and downed the contents. The elixir warmed and refreshed him, dispelling his exhaustion and restoring vitality to his palsied limbs.

  With a deep breath, Bannier circled down the stairs to his sitting room. He could hear the voices of the guards outside, debating whether they should seek the Mhor’s permission to break down the wizard’s door. “Can’t have that,” he muttered to himself. Striding across the room, he threw open the bolts, disarmed the magical traps with a word, and opened the door.

  Four of Shieldhaven’s guards stood outside, led by a young officer. The wizard’s sudden appearance startled them all, and the soldiers recoiled a step. “Yes?” Bannier asked confidently.

  “How may I be of service to you, lieutenant?”

  The officer exchanged a wary glance with the sergeant of the guard, and then considered Bannier with an openly suspicious look. “Begging your pardon, Lord Bannier, but the Mhor requests your presence immediately.”

  “Of course. Please, lead the way.”

  Without a word, the officer turned and started off, the soldiers flanking Bannier to either side. There was a time, years ago, when Shieldhaven’s guards and servants had been more open and friendly, Bannier thought. It seemed to him that he’d been greeted with smiles and pleasant words in the days before he expanded his research. Were the people he’d known before gone, or had they grown resentful of his presence?

  Whatever the reason, the black looks he received as they headed for the Mhor’s study made it easier for Bannier to contemplate the bargain he had made. People were ephemeral, but power – magical power, not the trappings of office or rule – that was a much more tangible comfort.

  They arrived at the mahogany-panelled royal quarters in short order. The wizard was surprised to see a pair of fully armored guards standing before the door, swords bared. It seemed the Mhor was taking few chances. Inside, he found Mhor Daeric leaning over a map of Mhoried, with his first son, Prince Thendiere, by his side, and old Tiery as well. The Mhor glanced up, and his expression hardened. “Bannier,” he said. “We’ve sorely missed your counsel the past two days. I assume you’ve heard of Ghoere’s attack?”

  Bannier chose his words carefully. “Indeed I have, my lord.

  I have just returned from the Maesil.” When he put his mind to it, the Mhor possessed an uncanny ability to discern the truth of a person’s words. It was one of the signs of the Mhoried blood, a gift inherited from his ancestors. With a grimace, Bannier suppressed a quick flash of jealousy that coiled through his heart. He would have the Mhorieds’ power soon enough.

  The Mhor’s brow furrowed at Bannier’s words and expression.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Ghoere’s army had magical aid in crossing the Maesil,”

  Bannier said. “You must have noted the unnatural cold we’ve had this spring. Sorcery froze the river, and Tuorel crossed on foot.”

  “That confirms our reports,” said Thendiere. He was a tall, thin man of about thirty. He had the Mhor’s height but his mother’s slightness of build. Thendiere’s face was guarded, with a cautious intelligence glinting in his eyes. He leaned heavily on a thick wooden cane, and as he shifted position Bannier noted that his right leg was immobilized by a splint under his loose-fitting breeches. “I didn’t think that Tuorel commanded the allegiance of a wizard powerful enough to cast such a spell. There can’t be more than a handful in all Anuire with that much strength.”

  Bannier bowed his head. “You are correct, Prince Thendiere. I know the wizard called the Sword Mage aided Tuorel in his war against Elinie. He often visits Ghoere’s court.”

  The Mhor paced away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Despite the fatigue of nearly two days of meetings, council
s of war, diplomatic messages, and other endless tasks, he still presented an appearance of calm dignity and strength. Even his gray tunic was carefully pressed. He stopped by the window, gazing out over the snow-capped battlements of the castle. “Bannier, we have been allies for thirteen years now,” he said quietly. “I have provided you with wealth, comfort, and prestige in exchange for your invaluable advice and assistance in magical matters. I know few wizards as competent as you. If the Sword Mage is using his sorcery to aid Ghoere’s armies, I must have your skills to defend my own forces.”

  “You sound as though you doubt me, my lord.”

  Mhor Daeric looked over his shoulder, one eye fixing the wizard where he stood. “Bannier, you left without notice at a time when I desperately needed your counsel. As it turns out, you probably did exactly what I would have wanted of you in exploring Tuorel’s method of invasion, but the point remains that I had no idea where you were. In fact, in recent years I’ve seen less and less of you. I know you’re no liegeman of mine, but I expect some degree of loyalty from you.”

  “My studies have consumed much of my time,” Bannier answered, truthfully enough. “And, to be honest, with Mhoried at peace there’s been little for me to advise you about. Dealing with Markazor’s raids or Alamie’s troubles wouldn’t have been the best use of my time.”

  The Mhor held his eye for a long moment, studying Bannier’s face. Despite himself, Bannier grew uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally, the Mhor looked away, and Bannier began to relax. Then Tiery spoke up from the corner of the room. “How did you know to go to the Maesil?”

  Bannier was not expecting the question. “What?”

  “We received word of the invasion yesterday, but no one has seen you for days. You’ve been to the Maesil and back already?”

  “I have my own sources of information,” Bannier replied.

  “I left when I suspected trouble.”

  “And you didn’t see fit to warn us before you left?”