The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  Vandiel leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “Ah. I see. You’re right, Gaelin.”

  “Well, he’ll have two choices,” Seriene observed. “He can split his army to meet each threat, or he can ignore one to face the other. From what I know of the baron, I don’t think he’ll just wait where he is.”

  “If he splits his army, I’ll be happy. We’ll outnumber him on both sides, and I think we can win a hard fight,” Gaelin replied.

  “But I don’t think he’ll divide his forces. It’s a better move for him to pick one or the other and destroy it outright. I don’t think he’ll attack the northern army, because the terrain won’t favor his cavalry. He’ll probably try to isolate and destroy the southern army in the open terrain south of his camp.”

  Vandiel grimaced. “It could be a long day for my army, Gaelin. If Tuorel abandons the siege lines in order to throw everything he has at me, what will you do?”

  “First, you’ll give ground in order to draw him out, and to preserve your own army as a fighting force,” Gaelin said, thinking. “Then, I’ll advance past Caer Winoene to attack his camp. I’ll also see if I can sortie the Caer Winoene army. We should have close to three thousand men behind those lines.

  If Tuorel doesn’t keep them engaged with his army, I’ll turn them to the attack as soon as I can.”

  “What if Tuorel surprises you by attacking the northern army?” asked Erin.

  “Then we’ll do the same thing from the south,” Vandiel answered.

  “We’ll burn his camp and go on to break the siege lines, while Gaelin backs away. We can bait Tuorel like a badger caught in a trap.” He looked at Gaelin with newfound respect.

  “I can see why Tuorel’s so desperate to finish you off, Mhor Gaelin. You’re a formidable enemy.”

  “It seemed like the best plan,” Gaelin said, shrugging.

  Weeks of working with Baesil Ceried had given him a knowledge of military strategy. Or was there something else at work, another hidden legacy of the Mhoried blood? He deferred his curiosity to another time – a good plan was one thing, but there was still a battle to be fought. “We’ll see whether or not it works. I haven’t beaten Tuorel yet. He’ll think of something that we haven’t, and we’ll have to adjust to it quickly.”

  “There’s no way to anticipate inspiration,” Vandiel said.

  “We’ll respond when we see how the battle lies. Where will you be?”

  “I’ll lead the northern force. They’re the troops that are most likely to break and run against hard opposition, and they’ll be encouraged more than the trained soldiers by my presence. If we can’t bring them to grips with the enemy, the battle’s lost.” He looked around the room at the various officers.

  “Prince Vandiel will command the southern army. But I’ll ask you to share your command with the high prefect, since her officers will be the liaison between your forces and the rest of the army.”

  “Very well,” Vandiel said. “Now, I suggest we let our offi- cers work out the signals and other details. We’ve a lot of planning to do.”

  The discussions and debates lasted for hours, until well after midnight. Even when the last of the major problems had been worked out, there were still dozens of contingencies that could not be accounted for. When they finally returned to the Mhorien camp by the lake, dawn was only four or five hours away.

  Despite the hour, Gaelin wasn’t tired. The skies were clear, and the new moon was a bright sliver of warm light in the sky. A shallow ground mist blanketed the hillsides and valleys in shining silver. The night was still, and those around him seemed to sense his desire for reflection. The white falcon embroidered on his surcoat gleamed in the moonlight, and he found himself thinking of his father, and his fathers before him, all the men and women who had worn the falcon in the long years of Mhoried’s proud history.

  When they returned to the camp, Gaelin let a groom lead Blackbrand away and wandered to a hillside overlooking the lake, in the shadow of the old monastery. Light sparkled on the lake’s placid waters, a shining trail of silver that dappled the dark bluffs and hills with beautiful reflections. It struck him as disrespectful to make a battlefield of such breathtaking beauty.

  After a time, he heard Erin’s light footfalls. She sat down on the cold grass beside him, admiring the view. They looked out over the landscape together in a companionable silence for some time before she spoke. “You should try to get some sleep,” she said quietly.

  He smiled. “It won’t happen tonight. I’m not anxious, or frightened – well, a little frightened, perhaps. I feel as if this may be my last night, so why spend it sleeping?” He looked at Erin. Her hair seemed to gleam with its own fire in the moonlight, and her face was silver and perfect. Her Sidhelien blood was very noticeable, in the cast of her eyes, the delicacy and strength of her features, and the almost tangible aura of otherworldliness that seemed to dance around her. He found his heart racing, as he moved closer and took her hand. “Erin, if we triumph tomorrow, I want you to be my wife.”

  “Oh, Gaelin, why did you have to say that?” She leaned forward, hiding her face. “You know you can’t promise any- thing to me. You’re the Mhor. Mhoried will demand you marry a princess of your own status, not a half-breed minstrel without a trace of the ancient blood.”

  “If all that didn’t matter, what would you say?”

  She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. “You know already, or you wouldn’t have asked. My heart has been yours, almost from the first time I saw you.”

  “Then I’ll find a way to make it work.”

  Erin started to speak but hesitated. After a moment, her face darkened, and she stood up abruptly. “We might pretend for a while that it doesn’t matter, Gaelin, but you know as well as I that it will. What will you do when someone like Baesil tells you he’ll foreswear his allegiance before taking a half-elf nobody for his queen? What will you say when Iviena declares you a heretic or tries to disinherit you?” She turned away.

  “Why are you looking for a reason not to marry me?”

  She stopped and whirled to face him, pulling her arm away. “It’s not that! It’s – you wouldn’t understand!”

  “Erin, I love you, and I want you to be my wife. I don’t think I could ever give my heart to another woman, not after loving you.” He touched her face, and raised her head to look into her eyes. “If I win tomorrow, and we drive Tuorel out of Mhoried, the lords and common folk will support me. They know you, and they like you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “I don’t need an answer tonight, Erin. Just promise me you’ll think on it.”

  Erin laughed softly through her tears. “I don’t see how I can avoid it.” Sighing, she stood and paced away, pulling her cloak around her shoulders, silhouetted against the lightening gray of the eastern sky. “Dawn’s not far off.”

  Gaelin nodded soberly. He stood and stretched. “I suppose it’s time to get to work.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Riding Blackbrand, Gaelin led the Mhoriens along the north shore of the lake. The hills came down to the water at the lake’s western end, and Gaelin was afraid the Ghoerans would try to hold the narrow front between the heights and the lake, halting his advance before he even got started – but his fears proved empty, and the Ghoerans didn’t oppose his advance. Tuorel wants us all within reach of his jaws before he strikes, he thought glumly, but he took the bait and continued his march.

  The Mhorien militia had a greater distance to cover than the southern force, a march of almost ten miles, and Gaelin hoped that his men would not be exhausted by the time they reached the Ghoeran lines. The light equipment of the militiamen was to their advantage in the march. They weren’t burdened by the heavy arms and armor of the Diemans or Haelynites and were much better off than the heavier troops would have been. The weather was another advantage for Gaelin, a cool and fair day that made for an easy marc h.

  About three thousand men marched with Gaelin’s host, the majority of th
em equipped with little more than longbows or spears, and perhaps a rusty old sword or a boiled-leather helmet.

  Given a fair fight in an open field, Ghoere’s professional soldiers and mercenaries would cut them to pieces, but Gaelin hoped that the swarming chaos of a brawl for the Ghoeran siege lines would prevent the enemy commanders from wielding their army as a cohesive machine. In a man-to-man fight, the Mhoriens would give as good as they got.

  The heart of his force was a crack guard composed of one hundred and fifty of the Knights Guardian of Mhoried. In the beginning of the war, his father had dispatched many of the knights to aid the highland lords in repelling the goblin invasion; riding in bands of ten to twenty, the knights had fought long and hard against the northern threat. They’d been trickling into Caer Winoene over the past two to four weeks, depending on how matters stood in various places across the northlands. The knights may have been few in number, but they were perhaps the finest fighters on the field. More importantly, Gaelin knew almost every one of them from his years as a squire and a knight-aspirant, and he was reassured by their company. The Guardians were led by Gaelin’s old master, Knight Commander Anduine.

  Although Gaelin was unhappy about it, Erin and Huire had joined his retinue, while Seriene rode with her father in the southern force. Gaelin had argued with Erin in particular for most of the morning with little luck; she ignored his orders to remove herself from the army, instead pointing out that her magic might be useful in coordinating with Vandiel’s host. “Besides,” she had said as they rode out of the camp, “I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to you.”

  When Gaelin had pointed out he felt the same way about her, she replied, “We should watch out for each other, then.”

  Throughout the morning, Gaelin rode up and down the column, letting the men who followed him see him. His armor was resplendent; some of the Knights Guardian had taken the time during the night to repair his battered plate and refurbish his surcoat and coat of arms. Even Blackbrand’s mail skirts were covered by a brand-new drape of green and white, with the argent falcon boldly displayed on each flank.

  Around noon, they called a brief halt about three miles from the Ghoeran position. The men rested and ate a spare midday meal of dried beef and mutton, cheese, and hardtack.

  While they rested, Gaelin sought out the Haelynite captain who was his liaison with the rest of the army. The Knight Templar was a pious, severe man named Ulmaeric, and Gaelin found the fellow never volunteered anything except brief prayers to Haelyn. “Sir Ulmaeric, where’s the southern army now?”

  “They started their march two hours after we did, as planned, my lord,” Ulmaeric replied. “They are almost directly opposite us, on the other side of the lake.” He pointed at a low hilltop about three miles away, on the opposite shore.

  “We have signalmen on the hill, there.”

  There was a quick flash of light from the hilltop, followed by three more in succession. “You’re using mirrors?” Gaelin asked.

  “Haelyn smiled upon us,” Ulmaeric said. “Mirrors or smoke allow us to stay in contact with Prince Vandiel’s force, but if the day had been foggy or rainy, we would have been cut off from them. That signal you just saw reported that Prince Vandiel’s army is confronted by a large Ghoeran host.”

  “See if you can find out if it’s all of Tuorel’s forces, or only part,” Gaelin said. “If Vandiel’s facing the entire Ghoeran army, we’re going to have to move fast to threaten Tuorel’s rear and keep him from destroying Vandiel’s force.”

  Ulmaeric saluted and set off in search of a messenger. From the hilltops on the north side of the lake, they could signal the southern post, but Ulmaeric still had to get someone to carry the message to a place where it could be easily seen. Gaelin watched him ride off – they’d have to resume the march immediately, now that Tuorel was showing his hand. He started to give the order to his standard-bearer, but his eye fell on a small rock that overlooked the resting column. He rode over to the boulder, dismounted and climbed to the top.

  “Soldiers of Mhoried!” he shouted, to get their attention.

  All along the column, men were sitting by the roadside or lying down with their heads on their packs. As they noticed Gaelin preparing to address them, they fell silent and turned or sat up to see him better. In a few moments, Gaelin had more than a thousand men looking at him.

  “Soldiers of Mhoried! We’re about three miles from the Ghoeran lines. Tuorel does not want to face you – he’s gone south to meet the Diemans and the Haelynites instead!” That evoked a few chuckles from the waiting militiamen. “We’ll march about two miles more. When we reach the open lands around Caer Winoene, we’ll break out of the column, form a line, and advance. Stay with your companies, and listen to the Knights Templar! They’re my means for communicating with you. Our first priority will be to take the siege lines and free Count Ceried’s men. Once we’ve chased the Ghoerans away from the castle, we’re going to press forward and attack the Ghoeran camp, with Ceried’s men to back us up. It’s going to be a long day, but by the grace of Lord Haelyn, we’ll send Tuorel back to Ghoere with his tail between his legs!”

  The men surged to their feet, cheering. When they quieted again, Gaelin finished. “I’d hoped to rest here for an hour, but we can’t give the Ghoerans too much time to hammer the Diemans. We have to press ahead to get to the fight in time.

  Good luck to you all!” With that, he waved once and jumped down to Blackbrand’s saddle, cantering back to the vanguard.

  The cheers of the freemen rang from the hillside out over the lake, a roar of defiance that could be heard for miles.

  Gaelin hoped Tuorel could hear it, wherever he was. As he came to the command company again, the standard-bearer raised his banner and signaled the march. The army surged forward again, following Gaelin to war.

  *****

  Baron Noered Tuorel sat astride his charger, dressed for battle. His Iron Guard held the center of the Ghoeran line, arrayed in rank upon rank of bright steel, like the fangs of a great armored dragon gaping wide in anticipation. Calruile rested in its sheath by his pommel, and he caressed the hilt absently. If he could bring Gaelin to personal combat, a thrust through the heart would wrest the power of the Mhoried blood away from the boy, settling the Mhorien rebellion once and for all. From there, an ambitious man didn’t have to stretch his imagination to see the Iron Throne of Anuire itself.

  Tuorel grinned in anticipation; one way or the other, the affair would be settled today.

  He turned to the captain of his guard, Lady Avaera. She was beautiful and deadly, like a well-made sword, and Tuorel admired her in the way he might admire a predatory cat. “Any reports on where Gaelin of Mhoried rides today?” he asked. “I must know, before I engage these fools in front of us.”

  Avaera glanced at him, and slipped her steel dragonbeaked helm over her face. “I’ll check with the master of scouts immediately, my lord.” She cantered away, leaving Tuorel to consider the army that opposed his own. The Diemans he knew well, having skirmished against them several times in the past decade in the frontier lands of Roesone and Endier. They were good troops, on a man-for-man basis probably the equal of his own army. The Haelynite troops he’d never fought before, and there was a scattering of minor Mhorien lords mixed in. All the troops on the enemy line seemed to be professional soldiers; he guessed the Mhorien levies he’d heard about were circling the lake to attack his siege lines from the north.

  Even without the men he’d left behind in the trenches, his army outnumbered the Dieman and Haelynite force three men to two. The question in his mind was not whether he would win, but how many of the enemy soldiers his cavalry could ride down in the pursuit. Tuorel meant to smash his enemies so badly that no one in Mhoried would ever dare take arms against him again.

  He spied Avaera returning, cantering in front of the Ghoeran lines. She rode up to his banner and saluted. “My lord, the master of scouts reports that the Mhor’s banner has been sighted n
orth of the castle. Apparently, the Mhorien levies are preparing to assault our lines while we’re busy down here.”

  Tuorel nodded. “It’s a good plan on their part, but the Mhor’s showing a naive confidence in his conscripts. I’ve never seen a levy that could fight worth a damn, let alone storm a defended earthwork.” He looked around at the battle; the Diemans were holding their ground, about eight hundred yards away, apparently hesitant to attack an army that outnumbered their own. No matter; Tuorel would make that decision for them, in just a moment. He rubbed his jaw and scowled. “What of our so-called allies?”

  “The goblins are ready, my lord, but they’re not happy with their position. They want to join the fight.”

  “Kraith can keep them under control. All right, then, here are my orders: Avaera, take command of this force, and attack the Diemans with everything you’ve got, save the Iron Guard. You outnumber them, so bring the fight to Prince Vandiel. Capture the prince, if you can, but if he perishes in battle, I’ll not mind.”

  Avaera swallowed. “Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”

  “I’m taking the Iron Guard and going to the northern lines to confront Gaelin. I want the pleasure of killing him myself,”

  Tuorel snarled. He was not happy about leaving the southern battle, which he regarded as the more important of the two engagements, in Avaera’s hands; her experience was in skirmishing and raids, not open field battles. But with Baehemon dead, he had no one else he could trust to do as he ordered.

  As he had each day for the past week, he regretted killing the seasoned general.

  “What shall I do about the Markazorans?”

  “Don’t worry about that; I’ll handle Kraith. If you think you need him, send word to me first, and I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at her face, obscured by her sinister helmet device. “You’d better get to work; it looks like Vandiel’s getting ready to charge.” Tuorel pointed at the Dieman line, closing at a rapid trot. “Remember, take him alive if you can. And don’t disappoint me.”