Seriene snorted in the darkness. “I’ll step aside, Gaelin, but don’t ask me to plan the wedding. You’ll have to address that issue for yourself.”
He smiled. “We should get back down to the camp before everyone wonders what we’ve been up to. I have to think about how we’re going to meet up with your father’s army.”
Seriene reached up and shyly kissed his cheek, moving away f rom him. Side by side, they walked back down to the camp as the soft night breeze dampened their hair with cool dew.
*****
Riding a coal-black hellsteed, Bannier galloped into the Ghoeran camp with sparks flying from his mount’s iron-shod hooves. His long black cloak billowed behind him like a dark storm. He loathed the idea of acting as a simple courier for the Gorgon’s purposes, but anything that would restore him to the awnshegh’s good graces was worthwhile and necessary. He could not afford the smallest display of disobedience, and if that meant abasing himself in front of Tuorel, he would do so.
The Ghoeran camp seemed almost empty; few soldiers were in sight, and the ones he encountered were porters and quartermasters, busily ferrying food, water, weapons, and other supplies to the lines in front of Caer Winoene. He also met the litter carriers who dragged the dead and wounded back to the camp from the fight. Despite the grim nature of their work, the Ghoerans seemed cheerful and excited. Bannier deduced that the siege was going well.
Slowing to an easy canter, he passed through the camp and into the maze of ditches and emplacements that ringed the Mhorien lines. From here he could see the battered walls of Caer Winoene rising a half-mile away, and the wreckage of line after line of earthworks between the camp and the castle. Off on the left flank, near the shore of the lake, he spied the banners that marked Tuorel’s headquarters. Swallowing his distaste, he turned toward the pavilion and galloped over to it.
As he approached the tent, the soldiers of the Iron Guard watched him with mixed hostility and suspicion. Bannier dismounted slowly, holding his hands in the air. “Tell Tuorel I have returned and beg an audience with him,” he said to the guards. They surrounded him with bared swords, but the captain disappeared into the tent, presumably to request instructions.
After a quarter-hour, he returned and ordered the soldiers to escort Bannier inside. Although he couldn’t keep the scowl of anger from his face, Bannier accepted with docility.
The soldiers took him through the busy command center to the privacy of a small, empty partition beyond, leaving him there. Bannier resigned himself to a wait.
Nearly an hour later, the canvas flap was drawn aside by a guardsman, and Noered Tuorel entered, with Baehemon a step behind. The baron was dressed in full armor, and from the dust and mud Bannier guessed he’d been near the forefront of the fighting. The wizard bowed carefully. “My lord baron,” he said.
“Bannier. I see that you have returned again. How did you fare at Caer Duirga?” Tuorel handed his helmet to the guard by the door and removed his leather and iron gauntlets. “The guardsmen you requested have not returned with you. Can I assume your adventure was less than successful?”
The wizard’s eyes smoldered, but he kept his temper in check. “Gaelin defeated me,” he said. “He freed Ilwyn, and killed or scattered your guardsmen. I was not able to bring them back.”
Tuorel smiled, savoring Bannier’s discomfiture. “An unfortunate reversal for you, Bannier. However, Gaelin’s heroics will not help him much. His army is dying of thirst even as we speak; in another day, or maybe two, the castle will have to capitulate.” His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. “So, what is it you want of me?”
Baehemon moved around behind Bannier, lurking just at the edge of his peripheral vision, an anvil waiting for the hammer to fall. Ignoring the stocky warrior, Bannier focused on Tuorel. “I have news for you,” he said. Baehemon growled and muttered. “Call it a peace offering, if you will. I was not able to defeat Gaelin, but I may still help you to do so.”
Tuorel frowned. “I’m not inclined to accept your ‘gifts’ at this point, Bannier. It seems to me I can finish Gaelin Mhoried without any more of your help.”
“Even if I can place Warlord Kraith’s army at your command?”
“Kraith is at least ten days away, in Thak Mor Kadan. If you summoned him this instant, he’d be here too late to aid me in the fight ahead. Besides, I like the terms of my existing bargain with the goblin. If he helps me again, he’ll exact a price I may not want to meet, especially since it looks as if I’ll be able to crush the Diemans without giving up the siege.”
“Kraith must abide by your agreement, Baron. He can demand nothing from you.”
Baehemon rasped, “We neither need nor want him here, Bannier. Even if he could be here in time to help us.”
“That is regrettable, Lord Baehemon. Kraith and his warband should be here on the morrow.”
Tuorel’s face was hot with indignation. “You presumed to summon Kraith without asking me? Bannier, you idiot! If the goblins appear on the battlefield, Kraith can hold me at sword point with the threat of changing sides! Do you have any idea of what that might cost me?”
Baehemon’s fists clenched Bannier’s arm with bone-crushing force. The stocky general spun the wizard about and glared into his face. “I told you this one would bring trouble, Tuorel,” he grated.
Ignoring Baehemon, Bannier turned back to Tuorel. “Kraith will do whatever you bid him to. He has his orders.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Orders? From whom?”
Bannier considered some kind of lie, but then it occurred to him that Tuorel would be shaken to the core by the revelation of the Gorgon’s involvement. Bannier was damned, anyway – why let Tuorel believe he was his own master? He grinned at the idea of the mighty warlord, the great reunifier of the empire, learning that he was nothing more than a pawn. Deliberately, he said, “Kraith marches at the Gorgon’s command, Tuorel. You are to do as Prince Raesene bids and cooperate with Kraith of Markazor.”
Absolute silence reigned in the tent for a long moment.
Tuorel’s face was pale, and he blinked twice. Behind him, Baehemon gasped as if he’d been punched. Delighting in their horror, Bannier continued, “Why do you think Kraith was so eager to ally with you earlier this year, Tuorel? Not because he has any love for you, but because his master – and yours, now – commands it. You have championed the Gorgon’s cause for years.”
Behind him, Baehemon drew in a long, hissing breath. If Tuorel was shaken by Bannier’s revelations, Baehemon was destroyed by them. The lord general might have been a faithful follower of Tuorel the warlord, but aiding Tuorel the Gorgon’s pawn was something else entirely. Baehemon took one small step back, distancing himself from the truth.
Tuorel’s eyes flickered past Bannier, and without warning he struck like a serpent, leaping forward to thrust his sword into Baehemon’s throat. The blade passed only an inch or two from Bannier’s face, and the wizard flinched as hot blood splattered the back of his neck. He gagged in revulsion and twisted away, while Tuorel followed Baehemon to the ground, clamping a hand over the general’s mouth to silence the choking sounds of his death.
When it was over, he glanced up at Bannier with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Baehemon could never stand to serve me, after hearing that,” he said. “For years he was content to follow without question, but he would have done everything in his power to bring me down, instead of serving the Gorgon.”
Bannier turned to look at Baehemon’s body. Bright red blood stained the general’s gorget and surcoat. “Well, he’ll never speak of it,” the wizard said, returning his attention to the baron.
“Nor will you,” Tuorel replied. He stood and with both hands drove Calruile, his fathers’ sword, through Bannier’s chest. The force of the blow actually lifted the sorcerer from his feet and slammed him to the ground. “That’s for making me kill Baehemon,” Tuorel hissed. “I’ll have to think of a way to explain Kraith’s involvement, but you won’t blackmail me with tales of your dark
master. Betrayal’s a dangerous path, Bannier. Here’s what lies at the end of it.”
Bannier coughed once, his hand pushing at the sword that pierced his breastbone. Almost an arm’s length of steel protruded from his back. Darkness was coming for him, dimming his sight, and the light was whirling away from him. He reached out with one bloody hand and gripped Tuorel’s shoulder, a horrible smile on his face. “Bastard,” he coughed.
“Hear my words: You’ll never see the Iron Throne.” Then the light faded, and he slipped off the cold steel as he fell to the ground.
Noered Tuorel studied the scene in silence for a moment.
Outside, the guard called to see if he was well. His face twisting in barely controlled rage, the baron called the guards in.
When they burst through the door and took in the scene, the soldiers halted in astonishment. “Are you hurt, baron?” asked one.
“No, I am uninjured,” Tuorel replied. “But the traitor attacked and killed Lord Baehemon before I managed to cut him down. Treat Lord Baehemon with the appropriate honors and respect.”
“And the wizard?”
“Quarter his body and throw it in with the rest of the offal,” Tuorel said. “Then leave me be.”
*****
The weather was fine, cool, and clear as Gaelin rode into the Mhorien camp, beside the placid waters of Lake Winoene.
Nearly two thousand men followed him. The armored soldiers of the Temple of Haelyn had been joined by hundreds of villagers and freesteaders answering the call to arms. It had been a hard march, but they’d made it with half a day to spare. A lthough the men were tired, Gaelin set them to fortifying the camp immediately – he didn’t want his army smashed by a Ghoeran attack before they’d organized themselves.
On the bright side, their position was defensible. The southern end of Lake Winoene was boxed in tightly by the surrounding hills, unlike the open terrain by the castle of Caer Winoene, and strategically placed earthworks would suffice to guard the Mhorien muster. A long time ago, there had been a small village on this site and an old monastery high on a hill overlooking the lake. From the ruins of the monastery, Gaelin could make out the distant walls and towers of Caer Winoene, about seven miles away. Threads of dark, ominous smoke rose from the site of the siege. Gaelin found it unsettling to think the Ghoeran army lurked only a day’s march distant.
Agreat number of Mhoriens had answered Gaelin’s call in just five days. The ancient Count Torien had brought threequarters of his fighting strength, five hundred cavalrymen and a levy of nine hundred archers, leaving only a handful of men to hold the precarious northern borders of Mhoried.
Lord Ghaele, the husband of the Countess Marloer, led two hundred heavy knights and four hundred pikemen. A dozen more highland lords totaled about three hundred knights and retainers. However, the most impressive turnout came from the common folk of Winoene, Byrnnor, and Dhalsiel. Clan by clan, village by village, they came in bands of twenty or thirty, until more than two thousand were waiting for Gaelin to arrive. Many of these men were untrained and poorly equipped, but almost all carried the powerful Mhorien longbow, and knew how to use it.
Trying to make sense of the milling crowds of men and keep peace among those who weren’t friendly with each other consumed most of Gaelin’s afternoon. Since the Haelynites were the most organized unit on the field, he had Iviena’s officers divided among the detachments of the Mhorien lords and the horde of militiamen. The temple knights could use their common sets of orders and chain of command to control the various bands and militias they were attached to, although the Mhorien leaders kept command of their own units. Some of the minor lords and the villagers complained, but Gaelin realized it was the best he was going to come up with in the half-day he had to assemble the army.
Controlling the army was one thing; dividing his forces proved much more difficult. Even with the help of Iviena’s knights, Gaelin was reduced to riding about, ordering each group of men to go stand on a different part of the field. Eventually, he hammered together something resembling military units from the freemen and managed to assign them to different commanders. It was a chaotic, frustrating afternoon;
Gaelin was besieged with questions, demands, and helpful suggestions one after the other, the whole time shouting at the top of his lungs to make himself heard.
By the end of the day, Gaelin guessed that he had about three thousand trained, armored troops for the heart of his army, plus the same number of militiamen without companies or organization. Along with the Diemans, that would give him an edge over the Ghoerans. If he could coordinate a sortie from the defenders of Caer Winoene, he could create a significant advantage in numbers. But the Ghoeran army was generally better-equipped than the forces Gaelin had at his disposal, and, more importantly, they were one army to his motley assortment of highlanders, temple soldiers, and castle defenders.
Late in the day, the commander of scouts – an old Knight Guardian who led a tough band of highland freesteaders and huntsmen – reported they’d been able to signal Caer Winoene from a hilltop overlooking the castle. As Gaelin feared, Baesil’s army had been pushed off the lakeshore and cut off from their main source of water and the hope of resupply. The scouts reported that Count Baesil had managed to stretch his water and food for a couple of days by catching rainwater in makeshift cisterns and going to short rations, but the Mhoriens couldn’t hold out much longer.
Gaelin was much heartened by the arrival of a Dieman envoy around sunset. He reported the Dieman army was camped only a couple of miles away, tired but ready to fight after their march up along the Stonebyrn. Gaelin returned to the monastery and gathered Seriene, Erin, Count Torien, Lord Ghaele, and Prefect Iviena to visit Prince Vandiel.
“I never knew that assembling an army could be such a tedious task,” he grumbled as they left, riding through the cool evening shadows. “We could be weeks getting ready.”
“Regrettably, that’s not an option for us,” observed Lord Ghaele. “If we don’t relieve Ceried soon, he’s finished.”
The Diemans were camped in a vale about three miles from the Mhorien camp. As they approached, Gaelin envied the clean order and discipline of their camp. Escorted by Dieman guards, they were led to Prince Vandiel’s pavilion. Gaelin was greeted by the lord of Diemed as he dismounted. With a slight shiver, he realized that the dream he’d had the other night had been uncannily accurate; Vandiel looked exactly as he expected him to. Dressed in a comfortable tunic of black and silver, Vandiel sketched a bow and said, “Welcome to my camp, Mhor Gaelin. It’s good to finally meet you – Seriene speaks quite highly of you.”
Returning his bow, Gaelin said, “Prince Vandiel, I am honored to be here. Thank you for coming to our aid. I am sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances.” He nodded to Erin, and the bard made all the introductions of the Mhorien party; then Vandiel’s own herald introduced the Dieman officers who accompanied the prince.
After the introductions, Vandiel took a moment to greet his daughter and then gestured toward his pavilion. “I understand that time is pressing,” he said. “Let’s step inside and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
They followed him into the spacious tent and gathered around a sturdy table. Over a goblet of wine, Gaelin briefed Vandiel on the course of the war to date, beginning with the Ghoeran invasion and the treachery of Bannier, the disaster of Cwlldon Field, and the destruction of the army at Marnevale by Bannier’s black sorcery.
“Do you have any plans for dealing with this necromancer, if he should employ his sorcery against you tomorrow?”
Vandiel asked. “From what you’ve told me, we don’t have a chance if he takes the field against us.”
“A few days ago we struck at the source of his power,” Gaelin told him. “Seriene was indispensable. Without her courage and her skill, Bannier would still hold my sister prisoner, and he would have the full command of his powers to use against us. But as far as we know, we either killed or wounded him so badly that we don�
��t expect him to be able to oppose us tomorrow. We only have to worry about the Ghoerans – and that’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Vandiel nodded. “That’s one piece of good news, anyway.
So what’s our plan of battle?”
“It occurs to me that Tuorel has the edge in a set-piece bat- tle,” Gaelin said. “Too many of our men are not trained or equipped for a fight on an open battlefield, so we have to give Tuorel a different kind of battle, a fight where he can’t use massed horsemen to smash us to pieces.”
“Unfortunately, Tuorel also has the advantage in one other regard,” Lord Ghaele added. “He can sit where he is and still win. The burden of action is on our side, which means we will have to go to him.”
“You are right, of course,” Gaelin said. “Here’s the plan I’ve come up with: First, we’ll divide into two forces, one to circle Lake Winoene to the north and thus come upon Caer Winoene from the back side of the siege lines, and one to circle the lake to the south and threaten Tuorel’s camp. Since the terrain to the south is more open, we’ll show Tuorel our heaviest forces there – the Dieman army, the Haelynites, and the Mhorien lords. To the north, we’ll use our militias. Since they’ll be fighting in and among the siege lines, we might as well use the men who aren’t used to fighting as part of an army on an open field.”
The room fell silent as the commanders and officers weighed Gaelin’s plan. Vandiel spoke first, frowning. “If Tuorel keeps his army together, he’ll outnumber either of your two forces.”
“You’re right,” Gaelin conceded, “but here’s Tuorel’s problem:
He has to defend two places. You see, the northern force can break his siege lines and relieve the army in Caer Winoene, while the southern force threatens his camp. If he tries to smash just the one or the other, he will either lose the siege lines or he’ll lose his camp.”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 33
