Across the square, Cuille drew his sword and lunged after the Ghoerans sweeping past him. “Stop! Stop, I beg you! This is unnecessary!” He raised his arm, trying to interpose himself between the cavalrymen and the villagers, but the Ghoeran behind him leaned forward and rammed his lance into the count’s back. Cuille gasped and spun out of the saddle, falling into the surging brawl of the square. A moment later, an archer on a nearby rooftop shot the captain through the throat. Gagging on blood, the Ghoeran officer fell forward and slid out of his saddle.
Gaelin met the first of the Ghoerans and engaged the fellow with a series of overhand cuts, but before he could strike a telling blow, the man was spitted on a pitchfork and dragged screaming from his saddle. As Gaelin looked for another man to engage, there was sudden brilliant light and a sharp crack! as Seriene unleashed a bolt of lightning that crashed through the main body of the Ghoeran column. In moments, the Ghoerans turned to flight, their front ranks drowned in a sea of angry villagers and their rear ranks raked by archers and magic. Gaelin watched in exhaustion as the Sirilmeeters streamed after the retreating enemy, brandishing torches and screaming in rage.
Behind them, dozens of dead and wounded, both Mhorien and Ghoeran, littered the town commons. Gaelin spotted Cuille Dhalsiel lying beside the dead captain. He slid down from Blackbrand’s back and ran forward, dropping to his knees beside the dying Mhorien. “Cuille! Are you – ”
Cuille looked up at him, his face pale and drawn. “Should have known a Ghoeran was going to stab me in the back, sooner or later,” he said. He gazed up past Gaelin. “I’m sorry… didn’t know it would be like this.”
“It’s not my place to forgive you, Cuille. Make your own peace with what you’ve done.”
“I told you, Gaelin… I’m damned as a traitor.”
“But you’re not dying as one,” Gaelin replied. Cuille smiled weakly in response, and then his eyes fixed on the dark skies overhead. Gaelin closed them, and stood, ignoring the tears that streaked his face. Regardless of what he might have done, Cuille had been his friend.
Ilwyn stumbled past him and knelt beside Cuille, cradling his head in her arms. She sagged back, numb with grief. “Ah, Cuille,” she said. She closed her eyes and sobbed. Quietly, Gaelin raised her up and led her away. Already, the folk of Sirilmeet were tending to their dead and wounded, but in the midst of their grief there was also a fierce pride in their victory.
The villagers had finally struck back.
That night, Gaelin and his party stayed beneath Master Piere’s roof again. After the fight, no one slept well. Gaelin found himself staring at the darkness for hours. How many men was he leading into death? How many men like Piere and Bull would never return from the campaign? He knew it was pointless to brood over these questions, but he couldn’t help it. Eventually he drifted off into a restless slumber.
In the gray hour before dawn, he rose and dressed himself, and awakened the others.
“Where will you go next, m’lord Mhor?” asked Piere. “Will you try to raise the southlands, too? From what I hear, they’re ready to fight.”
“There’s no time,” Gaelin said. “As it is, the muster of Sirilmeet will be hard-pressed to reach Lake Winoene in time. If I rode another half-day, the men I reached wouldn’t be able to make it to the fight.”
“Four days to Lake Winoene? Bah! We’ll be there in three,”
Piere boasted. But he didn’t argue the point that anyone further away would not be able to join the levy of Mhoried. “Will you return to Caer Winoene, then?”
Gaelin nodded. “I’ve one more stop first, and then I’ll make all speed for the muster. I need to make contact with the Diemans.”
“We have about thirty lads with horses good enough to keep up with you,” Piere offered. “Let me send them on ahead with you, just in case. Five guardsmen just aren’t enough to stand between you and danger, should you meet a Ghoeran patrol.”
Gaelin thought of declining – larger parties always moved slower than small ones, and he was pressed for time – but acquiesced.
“I’ll be proud to ride with the muster of Sirilmeet, Master Piere. Gather them quickly, though; we need to be on our way.” Within the hour, Gaelin’s small party grew into a band of forty. Most of the militiamen were unarmored, but a number had served as cavalrymen in Mhoried’s army, and they knew how to use the lance and bow from horseback.
While they waited for the Sirilmeeters to gather their gear, Gaelin was surprised by the arrival of Castellan Trebelaen from Castle Dhalsiel. The stocky knight approached and dropped to one knee, removing his helm. “My lord Mhor, I wish to report that the Ghoerans were driven out of Castle Dhalsiel last night. We heard how Count Dhalsiel died, and… we feel the least we can do is offer our swords in your service.”
“Your family is the closest to the Dhalsiels, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked. “You have a claim on the county.”
“My lord, I press no claim now. I don’t feel that I have the right.” Trebelaen looked up, his face working with emotion.
“Dhalsiel’s played a shameful part in this fight so far. I’d like to help make up for that.”
Gaelin looked over at Piere. “Master Piere? Do the folk of Sirilmeet have anything to say about this?”
Piere shrugged. “Mhor Gaelin, Count Dhalsiel’s men were under the orders of their lord, and they offered us no harm.
We just didn’t care for the company Count Cuille kept.”
“Very well, Sir Trebelaen. We need all the help we can get.”
Trebelaen stood and replaced his helmet. “Thank you, my lord Mhor. There are a few more of us who feel the same way.
They wanted me to find out your mind first.”
“How many?” Gaelin asked.
“About six hundred men-at-arms, my lord.” Trebelaen smiled. “With your permission, we’ll set out for Caer Winoene by noon.”
Gaelin blinked. “That’s almost all your strength.”
“Mhoried needs us, my lord. I couldn’t see holding back.”
“Thank you, Lord Trebelaen. We’ll see you at Lake Winoene in a couple of days, then.” Gaelin reached forward and clasped the knight’s arm. “It’s good to have you on our side.”
As the sun rose into the cloud-racked sky, Gaelin and his reinforced company set out again, riding into the wet, gray morning. Gaelin directed Bull to lead them to the abbey, and by midmorning they sighted the Haelynite stronghold across the downs and hills. The stone walls of the monastery bristled beneath the clouds like a knotted gray fist clenched in the hilltop, angry and warlike. Under the grim, glowering walls, Erin brought her horse alongside Gaelin and said, “You intend to ask the prefect for her aid again? She already refused to help you once.”
“My circumstances were different then. Mhoried’s army was smashed, and I was a fugitive accompanied by only a handful of retainers. Things might not be much better, but maybe Iviena’s had a change of heart in the last month and a half.” Gaelin glanced at her and smiled. “Besides, the abbey is along the way. What could it hurt?”
Riding to the front of the fortified retreat, they entered through the open gates and rode into the great courtyard in the center of the monastery. An unsettled feeling flitted through Gaelin’s stomach as he recalled the ambush at Shieldhaven, but he had nothing to fear: the Haelynites welcomed his arrival with military honors. A gaunt, hatchetfaced captain wearing the garb of a brother superior over his armor personally escorted Gaelin and his immediate entourage into the temple.
High Prefect Iviena met him in the same audience chamber he had visited before, but instead of the humble habit she had worn on the previous occasion, she was dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor. He removed his helm, and strode forward to kneel before Iviena, kissing her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “You were expecting me, Prefect?”
Iviena smiled, motioning him to rise. “The countryside is afire with rumors of war, Gaelin. From here to the Stonebyrn the militias are gathering. We m
ay be cloistered to contemplate Haelyn’s glory, but we aren’t that sheltered.”
“You know why I’m here, then?”
“I suspect that you wish to rally us to your cause, Mhor Gaelin.”
“If I remember right, you have nearly a thousand men under arms here, including three hundred Knights Templar,” Gaelin said. He met Iviena’s eyes, letting her see a glimpse of the white fire that fueled him. “We have a hard fight ahead of us, and we’ll meet Tuorel’s army with or without your soldiers.
But they’d be a great help, Iviena. They might even tip the battle in our favor.”
The old priestess turned away, facing the small altar of Haelyn that stood at the end of hall. Closing her eyes, she breathed a silent prayer. Gaelin waited quietly. “The issue is still in doubt,” she said at last. “But you are the Mhor now, not a pretender or fugitive, and you deserve our support. The soldiers of the faith shall join you against Ghoere.”
Gaelin risked a quick glance at Erin; she offered a fiery grin, her face flushed. For the first time, he felt a sense of something greater than himself coming together. The events he had set in motion were gathering momentum, drawing him along with a newfound sense of gravity and history. His place was at the front of this rising tide, in the center of the storm, and they’d know in a few days whether he had done everything he needed to do.
He looked back at Iviena and clasped her hand in a warrior’s handshake. “We’ve half a day’s light left,” he said with a bare smile. “How soon can your men march?”
*****
Thick, black smoke wreathed the Mhorien lines, turning the battle into a swirling hell of fire, blood, and torment. Surrounded by the black-armored knights of his Iron Guard, Baron Tuorel rode forward with a grim smile of satisfaction hidden beneath his wolf-shaped visor. He delighted in the clash of arms, the fierce struggle for survival and victory, the ultimate test of who was right and who was wrong. He and his knights had spent the morning in a pitched fight on the Mhorien ramparts, driving Ceried’s men back in a bitter struggle.
Water splashed around his war-horse’s bloody hooves.
He’d finally fought through to the shores of Lake Winoene, and all around him his knights were driving the Mhoriens back into the ruins. Here along the lakeshore, the smoke was thinner, and Tuorel raised his visor to gasp for breath while he watched the end of the fight. After a few minutes, a blocky form in red and black armor approached on foot, carrying a spiked mace.
“Lord Baehemon,” said Tuorel. “I see you’ve lost your horse.”
Baehemon lifted his own visor and bared his teeth in a savage snarl. “They know how to fight, all right. We must have lost half our force storming that dike.” He looked around at the corpse-strewn battlefield, and grunted in satisfaction.
“We’ve got the lakeshore. How long do you think old Ceried can keep his men going without water?”
“Three days,” Tuorel said. “We’ll have to reinforce this position.
He has no choice but to try and take it back.” He dismounted, his feet splashing in the cold, muddy water, and then reached down to wash the grime and mud from his face.
“What about the Diemans? They’ll be here by then.”
Tuorel smiled and looked at his general. “We’ll hold what we’ve got with the foot troops and pull off the cavalry and knights to meet the Dieman attack.” Catching his horse by the reins, the baron swung himself up into the saddle again, and walked his horse up on to the gravel shore. “Now, let’s see if we can find the fight again. I’m not done with these dogs yet.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Haelynite column set off for Lake Winoene later in the afternoon, marching out of the abbey’s courtyard in ordered ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers. Gaelin traveled with High Prefect Iviena and the leaders of her army, discussing strategy and preparing rudimentary plans. On Gaelin’s advice, the Haelynite army traveled with doubled scouts and prepared rudimentary defenses every night. He didn’t doubt Ghoeran marauders and spies were everywhere in the highlands – if he had been in Tuorel’s position, he would have placed ambushers along the route of the approaching army.
Balancing the need for caution against the difficulties of moving nearly one thousand men over eighty miles in only four days, the Haelynites were forced to begin their marches well before sunrise, after sleeping only five to six hours a night. At first Gaelin was concerned that the soldiers would be too exhausted to be good for anything at Caer Winoene, but he soon learned they were excellent, well-conditioned troops, and dozens of priests accompanied the march to urge the men forward with their prayers and hymns.
The weather was fair, with warm afternoons and light rainfall, but the journey passed slowly for Gaelin. He was anxious to get back to Caer Winoene and see how matters stood, and Erin continued to hold herself at a distance from him. At least he had the pleasure of watching Ilwyn recover from her ordeal – the princess flourished under the care of both Erin and Seriene, who went out of their way to keep her mind engaged on anything except the nightmare she had endured.
At the end of their second day of travel, they camped along the Northrun, just inside the long, low ridge of hills that marked the border of Dhalsiel and Marloer’s Gap. On the next morning’s march, they would have to leave the road and travel through a series of passes and valleys to reach Lake Winoene.
Tired but satisfied with their progress, Gaelin cantered up the grassy slope of a small rise to watch over the campbuilding and enjoy the sunset. He sat down with his back to a tree, and let Blackbrand graze nearby. The clouds overhead were painted brilliant hues of red, gray, and gold as the sun hovered in the narrow space between the dark horizon and the overcast sky.
“A fair evening, wouldn’t you say?”
Startled, Gaelin scrambled to his feet and reached for his sword, but he realized that it was only Seriene. The Dieman sorceress was watching him with a slight smile on her face.
With a mischievous look to her eye, she rounded the tree and took the spot he’d just occupied, demurely arranging her skirts before looking up at him and asking, “Why don’t you join me? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He sat down beside her. They watched the sun disappearing behind a distant peak, as the sunset deepened into dusk.
Gaelin started to speak, but Seriene hushed him with a gesture and nodded at the marvelous sunset. With a shrug, Gaelin settled in to enjoy the sight. After another quarterhour, the last sliver of the sun vanished. Gaelin stretched and faced Seriene. “I know you didn’t come up here just for that,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Gaelin, you wound me. Don’t you think that I might have no other motive than just enjoying your company?”
He chose not to reply. With a sigh, Seriene continued. “Tomorrow or the next day, we’ll encounter my father’s army.”
Gaelin nodded. “I can feel them, nearby. They’re a few miles in that direction. My link to the land, I guess.”
“If you lift the siege at Caer Winoene, this war is won.
Have you thought about your alliance with Diemed?”
He glanced at her. Golden light gleamed on her face, and her dark eyes seemed to see right through him. “You mean to say, have I thought about marrying you?”
She leaned forward and brushed her warm, soft lips against his. “Is the prospect that unappealing?”
In truth, Gaelin had to admit that it was not unappealing at all. When Seriene touched him, it set him on fire. But even as she nestled closer in his arms, he found his thoughts turning to Erin and the way she felt next to him. With a deep breath, he managed to pull back. Standing quickly, he paced a step or two away, not looking at her. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday, Seriene, but it wouldn’t be honest or fair to you – or to Erin – for me to take you as my wife now. I can’t honestly say you’re the only woman in my heart.” He started to offer some kind of consolation but stopped before he made a fool of himself.
Seriene rose, avoiding his gaze. “This isn’t abo
ut politics and alliances, Gaelin. I truly care for you. I – ” She suddenly gathered her skirt and started to stand. “I won’t trouble you again.”
“Seriene, wait. Don’t leave like this,” Gaelin said. “I care for you, too. We’ve been through a lot together, and no matter what happens, I don’t want to have to avoid you.”
With a bitter smile, she turned back to him. “You couldn’t trust me.” The tears glimmering in her eyes scored Gaelin’s heart.
“Give me time,” he said quietly. “I might find my common sense again. Erin’s told me that she plans to leave.”
Seriene hesitated. “Erin is leaving?”
“I – that is, we – thought it wisest. I know I can’t marry her, Seriene.” He smiled sadly. “I think she’ll go back to the White Hall when the war’s over.”
Seriene looked up at him. “Gaelin, you would do that for me?”
“I couldn’t trust myself if she stayed, Seriene. It’s the best thing to do. Please… I’ll see things more clearly in a few weeks.”
The night was growing cooler as the light faded from the sky. Gaelin shivered lightly, watching Seriene, now a soft white shadow in the dusk. After a long moment, she sighed.
“Common sense isn’t enough, Gaelin. If you send Erin away to make room for me, you’ll hate me for it. Oh, you’d never say it, or even admit it to yourself, but deep in your heart you’d despise me for the rest of your life.” She shook her head and sank to the ground, turning away from him and staring into the crimson sunset. “You’re in love with her, and you can’t ever really get over that.”
Gaelin had no answer. He lifted Seriene to her feet and held her, cradling her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You deserve better than this.”
Her cheek was wet with tears against his neck. He closed his eyes and held her as darkness fell around them, stroking her hair. His heart ached for her, but he couldn’t restrain the sense of freedom, of elation, that flooded him. “I wounded Erin when I told her that we had to stop seeing each other,” he said after a while. “How do I set things right?”
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