Seriene retreated, clasping her hands in front of her and turning away. “I’m sorry, Gaelin.” She moved toward the door, and faced him again. “You know you can’t avoid the question forever.”
Gaelin watched her leave, fighting down the impulse to call her back. He sighed, and looked at himself in the mirror.
“You’re a fool,” he told his reflection. Buckling his sword belt around his waist, he headed down to the hall for the day’s meetings and audiences.
After several hours, Gaelin’s attention wandered, despite his best intentions. He was just about to excuse himself to go see how the troops fared, when there was a commotion in the doorway. Several of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, were engaged in a loud discussion with a highland herdsman.
The fellow seemed half-mad, his actions and voice growing more desperate by the minute. “I must see the Mhor!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “By Haelyn’s mercy, let me in!”
Gaelin stood, muttering a quick apology to the merchant with whom he had been speaking, and glanced at Huire. The priest was heading toward the door to straighten out the matter, but on a sudden impulse Gaelin descended from the dais and followed Huire to the hall’s entrance.
“Listen, friend, there are lots of people who have to see the Mhor,” Bull said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Give me your name and wait outside, and we’ll see what we can do.”
He had one beefy hand clamped firmly on the fellow’s shoulder; the highlander was unconsciously trying to twist away from the guardsman’s grip while he continued to plead.
“By the gods that died, don’t you understand? I’ve got to see the Mhor! It’s killing me!”
“What? What’s wrong?” asked Boeric. He had the man’s other arm. The sturdy sergeant glanced at the other guards in the chamber and jerked his head, signaling. Two more detached themselves from their posts along the chamber’s walls and stepped forward, ready to tackle the man if necessary.
The herdsman coughed and doubled over in agony, falling to his knees. For a moment, Gaelin thought he had been struck by one of the guards, but neither Boeric nor Bull had hit the man, and no one else was near. He stepped forward to see what was wrong and then stopped in horror as the wretch vomited forth a great gout of black blood. The courtiers and knights surrounding the scene paled and stepped back quickly, murmuring in consternation.
“Summon a physician!” said Gaelin. He stood there a moment, staring at the scene. The herdsman – a youth not much older than sixteen or seventeen, with soft blond whiskers on his chin – howled in agony, slumping to the floor, where he vomited again, adding to the pool of corruption on the floor before him. He lapsed into a fit of trembling, his face pale as a sheet. Gaelin wrinkled his nose in disgust, trying to stand his ground.
Then the liquid on the floor seethed and moved. It trembled, and then gathered quickly, drawing itself up into a nightmarish figure that stood up and confronted Gaelin. The thing’s skin was black, gleaming corruption, and the only feature in its misshapen face was a distended maw filled with needlelike teeth.
“Gaelin! Look out! It’s a fiend of some kind!” shouted Seriene.
Gaelin hadn’t even realized she was near, but her warning was unnecessary – like everyone in the room, he had retreated about four or five paces without realizing it, and his sword had found its way into his hand.
On the floor beside the thing, the highlander weakly crawled away, retching in a more human fashion now.
“I bear a message for you, Gaelin Mhoried,” said the creature, its face stretching into an evil grin. Its voice sounded like the mewling of a cat, but it was throatier and burbled and whistled through its foul mouth. “Bannier wishes to remind you that you have six more days to decide your sister’s fate.
You know of a place called Caer Duirga?”
“I know the place,” Gaelin replied.
“Go to Caer Duirga alone if you wish to see your sister alive. Bannier will await you there. If you do not come, she has been promised to me. I will enjoy her a great deal.” It laughed, a particularly horrible sound.
Gaelin took two steps forward, raising his sword. “I’ll see that you won’t have that opportunity, darkling.”
“You would break the tradition that guards a messenger from harm, then, prince of Mhoried?”
“You carry no banner of truce that I see. And I won’t let a thing like you walk out of this hall to terrify my subjects at will.” Gaelin advanced cautiously, and following his example several other knights and guards drew their weapons and began to hedge the creature in. The fiend merely grinned and hissed, dropping into a crouch, its long talons clicking together as it readied itself for the fight.
“Bannier laid no conditions on me after delivering his message, mortals,” the creature said. “I can leave this hall full of dead knights and nobles, and there is nothing to stop me.
Who will be the first to taste my kiss, eh?”
“No one here, fiend!” From behind Gaelin, Brother Huire stepped forward, the golden emblem of Haelyn raised high.
Chanting an ancient prayer, the priest pointed at the monstrous creature, and a ray of brilliant light struck the fiend in the center of its dark torso. The creature shrieked in rage, and sprang to ward the priest with unbelievable swiftness – but in midleap, the golden light seemed to wither its body into ash that drifted away, like a cloud of foul smoke. Not a single trace of the thing survived, except for the hapless herdsman who had been forced to carry it into Gaelin’s presence. Gaelin turned to look at Huire, astonished at the priest’s show of nerve.
“My apologies for interfering,” Huire said humbly, “But I was perhaps the only person here who could have dealt with the creature thus. It might have injured many people if you’d tried to defeat it with common steel.”
“Apology accepted,” Gaelin replied. “What of the lad?”
“A captive used by the monster, probably innocent. I’ll tend to him immediately.” Gaelin nodded his assent, and the priest knelt beside the youth and began to examine him. Letting out a deep breath, Gaelin sheathed his sword and looked around. Most of the court was watching him intently.
“Enough of this,” he muttered. “I’m tired of Bannier’s attentions.
Princess Seriene, Erin, would you come with me?
Boeric, you as well. Send word to Count Baesil that I need to see him at once. And Huire, please join us as soon as you can.” He turned and strode away, heading for the room he had appropriated as his private audience chamber, while the others followed.
Gaelin stared out the window, deep in thought, waiting for the rest to arrive. Behind him, he noticed a pronounced silence between Erin and Seriene, while Boeric simply waited.
In a quarter-hour, Huire and Baesil both appeared. Running his hand through his hair, Gaelin turned and faced his friends and advisors. “How is the herdsman?”
“He should be fine, my lord. He feels terrible about carrying that thing into your presence.” The priest steepled his hands before him. “He’s had a terrible fright, but the brave lad won’t admit it. I hope he’ll be all right.” He tapped his temple.
“Do what you can for him.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Gaelin glanced over the others, and took a seat at the head of the table. “You are all aware of my predicament,” he began.
“Bannier holds my sister hostage and threatens to kill her if I don’t surrender. If only my life were at stake, I would honor his bargain and deliver myself to his hands. But it would be wrong of me to leave Mhoried without a Mhor at a time like this, just as wrong as it would be to do nothing and allow Ilwyn to die at Bannier’s hands.”
“You’ve made a decision?” asked Seriene.
“Yes,” Gaelin replied. “I will go to Caer Duirga. But I won’t go alone, because I don’t trust Bannier. If it lies within my power, I mean to free Ilwyn.”
“What if you can’t free her?” said Baesil.
“Then I will surrender myself
to Bannier, and hope that he’s more trustworthy than I shall have proved myself to be.”
Gaelin looked around the table. “If that happens, there must be another Mhor. That will be Count Baesil Ceried.”
Baesil protested. “Gaelin, I can’t! There’s no way all the lords will follow me! When the Mhoried line dies, so does Mhoried!”
Gaelin looked into his face. “You’re the finest noble in Mhoried. If it comes to it, Baesil, I know you’ll do your best.
Who knows, maybe enough of the nobles will follow you to keep Mhoried in the fight. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He smiled with grim humor. “I’ve something to live for myself, and I don’t want to die unless I have to.”
Without looking up, Erin said, “When will you leave, Gaelin?”
“Count Baesil’s scouts report that we’ll be fighting in the Marnevale pass tomorrow. I mean to be there, to see how that goes. It’s two days’ ride to Caer Duirga, so I expect I’ll leave either the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. As to what happens next… I don’t know. But I’m going to get Ilwyn out of Bannier’s reach, or die trying.”
Chapter Fourteen
Early in the morning, Gaelin and his advisors joined Baesil Ceried as he left for Marnevale. The Mhorien general had already dispatched his troops; this last group consisted of his officers and the Knights Guardian. They set forth in a drizzle that lasted all morning, soaking them to the skin, but at least the day was fairly warm.
Baesil’s plan was simple. At Marnevale, two steep ridges were separated by rocky walls only three hundred yards apart. The Ghoerans could ignore the gap and skirt the ridges, but this would delay them by at least a day, and the gaps at the far end of the ridges were just as defensible as Marnevale. Baesil’s men had raised a long earthwork across the gap, which they would hold as long as they could. A second line had been built behind the first, so the troops holding the front would have the opportunity to fall back while a rear guard held the Ghoerans. Baehemon’s great advantage – his armored cavalry and knights – would be neutralized by the fortifications, and he would have to take the line by hand-tohand assault in the teeth of four hundred archers and six hundred infantry.
“Should we have committed more men to the defense of the gap?” Gaelin asked Baesil as they rode along. “After all, we have an excellent position here.”
The old count shrugged. “Baehemon might decline the battle and try to flank us. We’d be finished if he managed to engage us here while his cavalry swept around to surround us, which is why I wanted this force to be small and mobile.” He clapped Gaelin on the shoulder. “This isn’t the deciding point, not yet. I’m just going to see if I can blood Baehemon again.”
An hour after noon, they arrived at the gap, riding in a long column of mud-splattered armor and sagging banners.
The rain had continued all day, and the single road that led through the gap was a river of mud. Baesil led the guards into the open stretch between the two walls, and dismounted to climb the earthworks and confer with the captain who commanded the troops on the scene. Gaelin followed, Erin and Seriene a few paces behind him.
“There’s the Ghoeran host, m’lords,” reported the captain.
From their vantage atop the earthen dike – now soft and slippery from the rain – they could see rank upon rank of red and blue soldiery, seven or eight hundred yards downhill, gathering beneath a forest of banners. “As you expected, Count, Baehemon’s dismounted his knights to lead the attack, but he’s kept a number of cavalry mounted behind his lines.”
Baesil nodded. “He’s hoping to run us to ground after we abandon the line. Confident, isn’t he?”
“I’m surprised he’s coming up to meet us,” Gaelin said, as they watched the Ghoerans prepare for battle. “How far did they march today?”
“About five miles, Mhor Gaelin,” the captain replied.
“Baehemon didn’t want to give us the opportunity to strike at his camp again,” Baesil said. He looked up and down the line, surveying the defenses. Gaelin followed him, taking in the preparations. The men who had fortified the position had first dug a wide ditch about six feet deep, heaping the dirt on the far side so an enemy would first scramble down into the bottom of the ditch before climbing back up a slope that was a dozen feet in height. Along the top of the ramparts, hundreds of mantles – huge, stationary wooden shields designed to shelter archers – had been placed to provide cover for the Mhoriens. Baesil grunted in satisfaction. “They’ll remember this place a long time.”
Gaelin looked up at the steep hillsides on either side of them. “Any chance of the Ghoerans scaling the bluffs?”
Baesil grinned. “We have parties of skirmishers holding the hilltops. They’ll have to work to go around us.”
“Mhor Gaelin!” Erin was calling him, from a few yards away. She hadn’t spoken a word to him during their entire ride from Caer Winoene, but now pointed toward one of the banners in the center of the enemy army. “That’s Tuorel’s standard.”
Gaelin squinted at the banner she had indicated. As usual, her half-elven sight was better than his, but he was just barely able to make out the wolf’s head on red and blue. “He’s finally taken the field. I wonder if he’s going to lead the assault.”
“Tuorel’s Iron Guards are as tough as they come,” Baesil grunted. While they watched, drums began to rattle in the Ghoeran ranks, and the enemy started forward. “It seems we got here just in time,” Baesil said. “All right, everyone except the soldiers off the ramparts.”
Although he considered standing his ground, Gaelin decided not to. In the first place, it would give Baesil and Boeric fits, and secondly, risking his own life in this action wasn’t a good idea, considering what would become of Mhoried and Ilwyn if he fell. He could use his personal guard as a reserve, and throw them into the fight if the wall was breached. And he hadn’t forgotten how things had turned out the last time he’d taken the field, in the cavalry raid on Baehemon’s camp.
He resolved to leave the fighting to someone who knew what he was doing, and had his guardsmen fall back a short ways behind the rampart. They took up a position on the shoulder of one of Marnevale’s hills.
The Ghoeran ranks advanced, marching uphill in even rows. They were divided into three distinct columns; the left and right flanks were composed of solid Ghoeran infantry, carrying spears and shields, protected by chain and leather armor, while the center consisted of plate-armored knights carrying pikes, halberds, and battle-axes.
The knights were having a hard time of it, slogging uphill in the soft mud, and the other columns slowed their pace to keep close. Between the columns, companies of bowmen marched, but their bows were slung over their shoulders – Mhorien bows were more powerful than the lowland weapons of the Ghoerans, and with the disadvantage of height the Ghoeran archers didn’t even pretend to threaten the Mhorien position. They carried mattocks and short swords for the hand-to-hand assault.
The drums grew louder and deeper, reverberating from the rocky walls of the defile. The shrill sound of Ghoeran fifes drifted through the air, setting ghostly claws to Gaelin’s backbone.
From where he sat on Blackbrand, he could see rank after rank of the enemy army. Tuorel was pulling out all the stops, and he guessed that somewhere between six and eight thousand men were mustered under Tuorel’s banner.
“Ready the archers,” said Baesil. One officer raised a distinctive red flag, and a trumpeter sounded a blast. Along the rampart, the Mhorien archers nocked arrows on their bows.
“Archers, draw,” said Baesil. There was another trumpetcall, and the archers raised their bows, drawing the arrows to their ears. The Ghoerans were still a little far, but the leading troops were well within their range. Baesil started to speak the words to fire, but the Ghoerans halted, with a flourish of trumpets. The last rattling echoes of the drums rolled back from the hillsides, and then the battlefield fell silent. Baesil scowled. “What on earth? Archers, hold.”
Along the line, the bowmen relaxed their aim and lowered their weapons, craning their necks to see what was happening downfield. In the center of the enemy lines, a dark figure stalked forward, leaning on a great staff. The soldiers nearby shifted and muttered restlessly as he passed by.
“Bannier,” said Gaelin. “What is he up to now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” said Baesil.
“Archers, skewer that wizard!”
A moment later, a ragged flight of arrows rose from the Mhorien ranks, lofting high into the air. Bannier continued forward, ignoring the missiles. Hundreds clattered to the ground all around him, but not a single one seemed to touch him, although a number of arrows flew astray and inflicted casualties in the Ghoeran ranks near him. The wizard paused and grounded his staff into the earth, freeing both hands to begin a flamboyant invocation of some kind. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Gaelin thought. “Seriene? What’s he doing?”
The princess was whispering and making passes with one hand, involved in some spell of her own. She found a moment to reply nonetheless. “I’m not certain, my lord Mhor. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. I’m taking steps to protect us here, just in case.” She continued her enchantment.
Bannier’s preparations continued for ten minutes or more.
From time to time, a Mhorien archer would loose a carefully aimed arrow at the wizard, but somehow none of these managed to strike Bannier. The Mhorien troops were growing nervous, muttering to each other and subconsciously slinking backward a step or two, fearful of what the wizard’s magic might do. Finally, he finished. With one glance at the Mhorien line, he picked up his staff and turned away, heading back down the hill.
“That was it?” said Erin in disbelief.
Seriene’s face was pale. Her horse picked up on her nervousness and pranced, pawing at the ground. “I don’t think that was it,” the princess said quietly. “We’d better fall back to the second line.”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 24
