He could make out the trenches excavated by the Ghoeran soldiers, ringing the Mhorien stronghold. Campfires dotted the plain beyond, surrounding batteries of siege engines. He turned his attention to Caer Winoene itself. The castle had only been partially repaired in the time Gaelin had occupied it, and under the Ghoeran bombardment, it was not faring well. If Caer Winoene had been garrisoned by anything less than a full army, the Ghoerans would have been able to press the attack and storm the breached defenses. But the castle itself formed only the centerpiece of a ring of ramparts, trenches, and redoubts that concealed the Mhorien army.
Examining the Mhorien lines, Gaelin realized the outer ramparts – the first line of defense – had been abandoned already and incorporated into the siege lines of the attackers.
He was appalled; the earthworks had been wrecked in only three days! No artillery he knew of could level an earthen dike that quickly. “They’ve lost the first line,” he breathed aloud.
Beside him, the Mhor Daeric nodded. “Bannier’s sorcery wreaked a great deal of harm before he left to confront you at Caer Duirga. The Ghoeran army numbers more than seven thousand veterans. Baesil has a shade over three thousand men still, enough to hold the ruins and the earthworks for some time. But he has another, more pressing problem. If Tuorel exploits Bannier’s work, he can drive Baesil’s men from the lakeshore, which would deprive Baesil of the water and food he needs to keep fighting. Caer Winoene won’t last a week after that.”
“I have to find a way to break the siege. I can’t lose Caer Winoene or the people who are trapped here.”
Daeric glimmered in the red torchlight of the hilltop. “I am afraid I cannot help you more,” he said. “You’re the Mhor now, and this is your battle to win or lose. But I have news that may hearten you.” He reached forward to clasp Gaelin’s arm, and the ramparts of Caer Winoene faded from view again.
This time, they appeared in a shadowed copse of trees, by the banks of a great river. Gaelin recognized it as the Stonebyrn, at a place close to where he had crossed into Mhoried while fleeing Tuorel’s hunters. All around them, an army had set its camp for the night. Tents and fires filled a large field, and Gaelin noticed the black and silver standard of Diemed hanging from a pole before a great pavilion nearby. A slight, graceful man with aquiline features and midnight hair stood nearby, dressed in the armor of a great noble. “It’s Vandiel of Diemed!” Gaelin said. “He’s coming to our aid!”
“He’s at least a week away from engaging Tuorel, and he only brought half of his army with him,” said Daeric. “Ghoere’s army outnumbers both the Mhoriens and the Diemans together.”
“Seriene said her father wouldn’t come until we’d shown that we can defeat Tuorel. What changed his mind?”
“Apparently, Seriene did. She’s much taken with you, Gaelin. She’s employed her magic to speak with her father several times since coming to your court, begging him to intervene.”
Daeric faced Gaelin, his silver gaze weighing on Gaelin’s conscience. “You should consider the advantages of a marriage to her.”
“I’m not sure that I love her,” Gaelin replied slowly.
“Love? That’s beside the point. You have a duty to Mhoried.”
“I know my duty.” Gaelin squared his shoulders and faced his father. “I know what you would do in my place. But I am not you, and I will have to find my own way.”
Daeric frowned, and their surroundings shifted again. They were in Shieldhaven once more, in the panelled study with its shelves of books and great leather chairs. His father sat in his customary place, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think this is the last time you’ll see me,” Daeric said. “You’ll make a good Mhor, Gaelin. You’ve been making your own decisions ever since the divine right passed to you on the banks of the Stonebyrn. Some have been bad, and some have been good, but they’ve been yours to make, and I won’t question them.
You are the Mhor now, not I, and Mhoried rests in your hands.” Daeric’s shade began to grow brighter and more translucent, while the study swirled away in mist and shadow.
“Wait! Please! How can I beat Tuorel?”
His father’s voice was growing fainter. “During my life and reign, I was ruled by duty. You, Gaelin, take after your mother.You are ruled by your heart. I won’t say which is better than the other… but I believe you should follow your heart. Duty never led me astray. I doubt your heart will betray you.”
Gaelin found himself standing on the slopes of Caer Duirga, looking down on their campsite. The sunrise was not far off; he could feel the warm light glinting on the easternmost peaks of the land, even though it would be a few minutes yet before the sun rose where he stood. He heard one last, distant whisper: “Farewell.” Then he knew that his father was gone.
A moment later, the sun touched his walking spirit, and Gaelin awoke again, this time in his own physical body. He sat up, alert and refreshed, looking around at the faces of his friends and companions. As dawn broke, Bull sighed and stood from where he’d been keeping watch, moving over to begin rousing the rest of the group. He stopped, surprised to find Gaelin already awake. “Good morning, my lord,” he said. “You’re quick to rise.”
“Tell everyone to pack as soon as they can,” Gaelin said.
“We have a long ride ahead of us today.”
Bull nodded. “If we push the horses, I reckon we can make Caer Winoene by nightfall tomorrow.”
“We’re not going to Caer Winoene,” Gaelin told him. “At least, not right away. The time’s come to raise the countryside against Tuorel.”
From Caer Duirga, Gaelin led them southeast through the wild reaches of the highlands. He pushed them hard, knowing his friends and soldiers were exhausted. The haunting images of his vision and his father’s words lingered in his mind, steeling him to do whatever was necessary to reach Caer Winoene with help. The brooding that had weighed on Gaelin during the ride to Bannier’s stronghold was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency and desperation. Mhoried was running out of time.
Through the morning, they picked their way through the stone-toothed hills and trackless heather-grown valleys. As they descended into the densely populated heartlands of Mhoried, Gaelin paused at each village and homestead to spread a call to arms. These people were highlanders, tough and quick to defend their scattered farms and herds. The lords, their knights, and their men-at-arms represented only a fraction of Mhoried’s fighting strength; by raising the countryside Gaelin was drawing hundreds or possibly thousands of men to his banner. Each time he stopped, he asked the people to send someone to the next village so the summons would spread throughout the northlands.
“Why have we waited so long to do this?” Seriene asked as they rode away from a freestead. Behind them, the twentyodd clansmen of fighting age were already scrambling to collect their weapons and begin their march. “Every village we’ve passed has answered your call, Gaelin.”
“I wanted to, when we first settled in at Caer Winoene,” Gaelin replied. “But how could we have fed them all? We needed these men at home, tending their crops and herds.
And you might remember, Mhoried’s levy was already decimated once, at Cwlldon Field. The folk of the southern counties were slaughtered there, and I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.”
“Goblin bands were riding roughshod over these freeholds and villages just a month ago,” Bull added. “Many of these men have been fighting since early spring, looking out after their own homes.”
By nightfall, Gaelin guessed they had ridden twenty or twenty-five miles. Although he was anxious to continue, he realized his companions were exhausted. He wondered if the strength of the Mhoried bloodline was buoying him, now that he needed every last reserve of his physical abilities, but even if that was the case, Erin, Ilwyn, Seriene, and his guards required rest. They hadn’t recovered from their harrowing ordeal in the Shadow World. As the sun sank in the green hills to the west, they camped in a stand of beech on a forested hillside.
Over a cold
dinner, Gaelin noticed Ilwyn was a little more responsive, as if waking from a long sleep. When he finished eating, he brought her a tin cup of strong coffee and sat down beside her. “Ilwyn?” he said softly. “How do you feel?”
She shivered and looked up at him. For the first time since he’d brought her out of the darkness, he saw recognition in her eyes. “Gaelin? Where are we? What happened to me?”
“Hush. You’re all right. Bannier took you away, but now you’re back.” He glanced around and noticed that his traveling companions had drawn back a little to give him some privacy.
“We’re in Dhalsiel, maybe twenty miles or so from the Abbey of the Oak. I’m trying to raise an army to fight Tuorel.”
“I dreamed that you stood before the Red Oak. Father and Thendiere died, but you’re the Mhor now, aren’t you?”
“I am. I wish I could have helped them, Ilwyn.”
“It’s not your fault. Father sent you away. I wonder if somehow he knew what was going to happen.”
Gaelin shook his head. “I think he would have sent you and Liesele away, too, if that were true.”
“What are you going to do, Gaelin? Have you been fighting on all this time?”
He sighed and sat down beside her. “All spring and summer, it seems. But it’s nearly over. In five days, we’ll either break the siege of Caer Winoene, or Tuorel will crush us for good.”
Ilwyn put her hand on his shoulder. Somewhere behind her battered eyes, a flicker of her old fire and life showed.
“You’ll do it. After all, you were able to rescue me.”
“I had a lot of help,” he said, abashed. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to help you sooner than I did. I should have found some way to get you out of Bannier’s hands.”
Steadying her coffee tin with both hands, Ilwyn took a long drink, staring down into the cup. “I thought I was dead,” she said quietly. “It was so cold, and so quiet, and those stones all around me… it was as if I were in a great, dark tomb.” She closed her eyes, her face pale and still. “I don’t know if I will ever be free of it,” she whispered.
Gaelin put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s done now.
Bannier is gone, and you’re free. We’ll stay clear of the Shadow World for some time, I think,” he said with a weary smile. “Now, put it out of your mind, and get some rest.
We’ve a long way to travel tomorrow.”
Ilwyn soon fell asleep, her cheeks regaining a hint of their normal color.
The next morning, they continued into the rolling plains of central Mhoried, leaving the hills behind them. They soon came across the muddy path of the Northrun, in the southwest corner of the province of Dhalsiel. The road seemed clear, and from a quick examination, Gaelin guessed it hadn’t seen much use lately. Anyone who had fled from the Ghoeran occupation of the southlands would have passed this way a long time ago, and the road didn’t lead near enough to Caer Winoene to be useful as a supply route for Ghoere’s armies.
Still, there was a chance that Ghoeran marauders might be loitering in the area, trying to disrupt Mhorien movements and looking for easy loot.
Gaelin decided to risk the road, since time was of the essence. Again, he raised the countryside as he passed, although many of the towns and settlements near the road had been abandoned because they were too easy for the Ghoerans to find and attack. He rode the others into the ground, keeping up a grueling pace that left both humans and horses exhausted; even Blackbrand’s remarkable stamina was tested by the ride. Late in the day, Gaelin rode up beside Bull and asked, “How much farther to Sirilmeet?”
“About two miles ahead, there’s a trail that cuts crosscountry,”
Bull said. “If we hold this pace, we’ll be there a little after dark.”
The skies began to grow cloudy as they turned off onto Bull’s path, and darkened throughout the remainder of the afternoon. For a time, they passed through wild, untended lands, held by no lords and only sparsely settled. The going was difficult, and they were tired; Boeric endured the pain of his wounded leg, but every now and then a hiss escaped through his teeth as his horse took a bad jolt. By sunset, they were stumbling along, too tired to think of anything except the next step. Gaelin welcomed the sight of Sirilmeet’s quiet fields and farmhouses.
Riding into the center of the town, Gaelin discovered that word of his arrival had preceded him. A hundred or more of the villagers were assembled on the commons by torchlight, the fires leaping and crackling beneath the stars, and as the battered group appeared, the Sirilmeeters raised a resounding cheer. “Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin!”
Even in his exhaustion, Gaelin was profoundly moved.
The crowd swirled around him, dozens of people pressing close to offer their hands. Blackbrand neighed nervously and pranced back as the crowd engulfed him. “What’s going on?”
Gaelin shouted to Bull.
“I guess Dhalsiel’s lack of loyalty didn’t sit well with them,” the big farmer replied. “I told you Sirilmeet would fight!”
Gaelin glanced over at Erin. Her face shone in the firelight, and tears glistened in her eyes. Seriene sat a little way beyond her, a puzzled look on her face. He realized that the princess had a hard time understanding the loyalty commoners could feel for their lords. He reached down to return the handshakes and greetings as best he could. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again.
“We’re ready to march under the falcon banner, Mhor Gaelin!” Pushing his way through the crowd, Master Piere and his sons fought their way to Gaelin’s side. “Just tell us where and when!”
“Piere! It’s good to see you!” Gaelin leaned down and clasped the farmer’s hand in a stout grip. “I need you at Caer Winoene, in five days’ time. How many men can you bring?”
“Five hundred, or my name’s not Piere,” the farmer replied.
“Good,” Gaelin replied. He was starting to feel that there might be a chance. “Now, can – ”
“The count! The count is here!” From the edge of the commons, a confused cry arose as people turned to catch a glimpse of a long column of riders approaching the green.
Gaelin looked over the crowd surrounding him. He could make out the red and blue of Ghoeran cavalry, a patrol of sixty or more riding into the village. His heart sank; they were too tired to flee, and the Ghoerans were already upon them.
If he ordered the Sirilmeeters to attack, they would be slaughtered by the mounted troops in close combat.
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, look!”
Cuille Dhalsiel and a handful of his retainers rode in the center of the Ghoeran column. The Mhorien lord was armed for battle in a light suit of half-plate, wearing the yellow and black of Dhalsiel over his arms. The Ghoeran captain beside him spotted Gaelin and began to bark out orders, but Cuille caught his arm and silenced him.
“What do we do, Mhor Gaelin?” Piere was grimacing, his hand on the rusty old short sword on his belt. “Do we attack?”
“Wait a moment,” Gaelin said quietly. He trotted ahead a couple of steps, and raised his voice. “Cuille! I want to talk!”
“Your fame’s growing by leaps and bounds, Gaelin,” Cuille replied, doffing his helmet and shaking out his mane of hair. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a look of bitterness and defeat. He laughed hollowly. “We heard you were coming here hours ago. Why Sirilmeet?”
“I knew there were loyal Mhoriens here,” Gaelin answered.
“I need them at Caer Winoene.”
The Ghoeran captain growled in agitation. “That’s the Mhor’s son, Dhalsiel! We must take him!”
Cuille gave the fellow a pained look. “You are my guest, sir, and not my lord. Wait a moment.” He looked back at Gaelin. “Tuorel’s placed quite a bounty on your head. If I brought you to him, I’d triple my lands and holdings.”
“Do you really want to betray me, Cuille? You let me leave your castle before.”
Cuille fell silent for a moment, studying Gaelin. Their eyes locked, and he flushed and l
ooked away. “Princess Ilwyn! I am delighted to see you alive and well. I feared that you had come to harm in Bannier’s hands.”
Ilwyn somehow drew herself up, banishing the exhaustion with an unconscious will and throwing back her head. “Lord Cuille. I see you’ve reached an accommodation with Ghoere.”
The Mhorien turncoat gazed at Ilwyn, his face softening for a moment. “I did so for your safety. I’m sorry that Tuorel did not honor his bargain.”
“Then why do you remain in his camp?” Gaelin asked.
“What fealty do you owe him? It’s not too late to honor your allegiance to Mhoried, Cuille. To honor your allegiance to me.”
“Gaelin…” A glimpse of the Cuille Gaelin had once known appeared, though masked in dark cynicism. “I’m damned already. How could I undo what I’ve done? How could you ever trust me again?” He returned his gaze to Ilwyn and bowed in the saddle. “My lady, I am forever unworthy of you.”
The cavalry captain spat in disgust. “All right, Dhalsiel!
I’m not going to wait on you all night!”
Cuille glanced at the fellow in irritation. “I said I want to talk to him, and I will. Now be patient, good sir.” He tapped his horse’s flanks and walked forward.
Behind them, the Ghoeran cursed. “That’s it. Take them all!”
The cavalrymen spurred forward, slashing into the crowd of Sirilmeeters. In an instant, the scene was transformed into a mad, swirling melee of torchlight and flashing swords. Instead of fleeing, the villagers turned on the Ghoerans with the fero city of a wounded bear. Armed with pitchforks, clubs, and staves, they surged forward to meet the attack, dragging Ghoerans down from their mounts even as the cavalrymen slashed and hacked with abandon. Gaelin kicked Blackbrand forward, hauling his sword from its saddle sheath and making for the nearest attackers. His small retinue followed in his wake.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 31
