The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  “I think that’s about the best we’ll do, my lord Mhor,” Baesil Ceried said, observing the muster. “I hope they won’t break at first contact with the enemy.”

  “They’ve already won one fight today,” Gaelin said. “They have the courage, if we lead them well.” He nodded at Boeric.

  “Signal the advance; we’ve left the Diemans and Haelynites to fight our battle for too long.”

  Baesil’s soldiers included a contingent of signal drummers.

  With a stirring martial splendor, they hammered out the advance and settled into a slow march. Awkwardly trying to keep in step, Gaelin’s army slowly lurched forward, closing on the Ghoeran camp. As it moved forward, his army divided.

  The spearmen and Baesil’s foot-soldiers jogged to the camp to burn and ransack Tuorel’s supply train and stores, while Gaelin led his archers and Baesil’s cavalry toward the lakeshore to bypass the camp and head out to the raging battle to the south.

  “Do you have any idea of how Vandiel fares?” Baesil asked.

  “He’s still fighting, so he hasn’t been swept away by Tuorel’s army, but I don’t want to risk any more delay. The sooner we can get there and tip the scales, the better,” said Gaelin.

  Baesil gave Gaelin an odd look. “You’ve grown somehow in the past couple of weeks, lad. You’ve found the heart to be who you were born to be.”

  “I was tired of letting Bannier and Tuorel tell me how this war was going to be fought,” Gaelin said with a shrug. “It was time to hit back.”

  “Did you plan to lure them up here for this fight?”

  Gaelin laughed sourly. “No, I’m not that clever. Tuorel thought this up for me and then put my back against the wall.

  I’m only here because I have to be.”

  Baesil held his gaze a moment longer. “I’m beginning to wonder, my lord Mhor.”

  “When we get up to the fight, I want your cavalry to hit any reserves you see. I’ll lead the archers – ”

  “Mhor Gaelin! Goblins!” Boeric interrupted him with a desperate shout, pointing at the seemingly deserted Ghoeran camp. From the hundreds of tents and the maze of trenches and earthworks, thousands of goblins were streaming into view, shrieking their high-pitched war cries and descending on Gaelin’s army with unnatural swiftness. In an instant, Gaelin understood what had happened. Tuorel had concealed an army of his vile allies in his own camp, waiting for a chance to spring the ambush. And now Gaelin had set his foot squarely in Tuorel’s snare. In a matter of moments, the men advancing on the camp were inundated by a tide of dark warriors. They fought for their lives, while the goblins swarmed past the Mhorien spearmen and raced toward Gaelin’s column.

  “May the gods have mercy on us,” Baesil whispered in horror.

  “Lord Mhor! What do we do?”

  Gaelin didn’t know who shouted the question, but with blinding white fury building in his veins, there was only one answer.

  “We stand here,” he said. Rising in his stirrups, he held his sword aloft and roared a challenge. “Knights Guardian, to me! Archers, fire at will!” With agonizing slowness, the Mhorien column turned to the side to confront the screaming wave of goblins that stormed at them. Arrows flew toward the oncoming horde, first as a ragged volley, then growing into a withering storm of steel that scythed into the goblin ranks. Gaelin bit his lip, watching the approach of the enemy horde. He turned to give Boeric an order for the standard, and found himself looking into Erin’s face. Dressed in a borrowed soldier’s cloak, the minstrel waited beside the Falcon standard. “Erin! What are you doing here?”

  “I had a feeling you might need me,” she said. “And I didn’t want to let you out of my sight.”

  He glanced at the oncoming goblins. The archery was taking its toll, but it was too little to stop the horde in its tracks.

  Without time to set in position or organize their fire, the archers could only blunt the Markazoran charge. He lowered his voice. “Erin, promise me you’ll stay out of the fighting!”

  Erin drew her sword and moved up beside the standard. “I don’t think the goblins are going to give us that option,” she said.

  Gaelin whirled to watch the leading wave of goblins crash into the Mhorien ranks, swallowing his archers in a deadly, swirling melee. As the bowmen were forced into hand-tohand fighting, the deadly missile fire withered and ended, and the rear ranks of the goblin army piled forward unmolested.

  In a matter of moments, Gaelin was looking out over a sea of struggling bodies; surging knots of goblins broke through his lines and cut into the free yeomen and highlanders who made up his levy.

  “Baesil, get your right-flank cavalry out around in front of the camp and hit the Markazorans in the rear!” Gaelin shouted over the horrendous cacophony of screams, war cries, and the clamor of steel meeting steel. The horsemen who had screened the column’s march on the left side were already gone, embroiled in the goblin army, but the cavalrymen who rode on the right side of the Mhorien march were protected by the lake; they were clear of the fight for the moment, though Gaelin could tell they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  “Right!” Baesil wheeled his horse and bolted off toward the disengaged horsemen, followed by a band of officers and guards. Ignoring the dark tide that surged and boiled all around him, Gaelin peered over the battlefield, searching for some way to pull his men out of contact with the goblins, but it was hopeless; all up and down the line, the Mhoriens were at grips with their enemies.

  Gaelin’s thoughts raced as he tried to pick out the best place to commit his Knights Guardian and perhaps tip the tide of the fight. “Erin! This would be a good time for your magic!”

  “I agree!” Erin sheathed her sword and began to weave an enchantment in ancient Elvish, her voice rising high and clear above the din of the battle. “Rhadagh gealle allandalae!” she sang, pointing at the center of the goblin line. At first, Gaelin detected nothing out of the ordinary, and for a moment he thought her spell had failed. Then he noticed the press of the fight slacked and stopped as the goblins in the leading ranks began to turn on each other, hacking one another to pieces with a fiendish delight. A few seemed to fight off the berserk fury that clouded their minds, but as they stood milling helplessly about, they were cut down by the raging madmen around them.

  “Erin! What did you do?”

  “I cast a spell of confusion on them,” the minstrel replied, gasping for breath. “It only lasts a few minutes, but they can’t tell friend from foe.”

  “Will it affect all of them?”

  She shook her head. “No more than two or three dozen, Gaelin. That’s the limit of my power.”

  He scowled and wheeled his horse, trying to see the progress of the whole fight. Streams of goblins were pouring through the flanks on either side, surrounding the Mhoriens.

  “Gaelin, over there!” Erin called out a warning and pointed at the center of the goblin assault. Storming ahead of the chaos of the goblin horde, the Iron Guard of Ghoere thun- dered into view, surrounding the crimson wolf-standard of Noered Tuorel. With lances lowered, the Iron Guard charged directly for Gaelin’s banner, riding down both militiamen and goblins in their path. Gaelin was pinned in place; the goblins swarmed around the companies around his Guardians, preventing him from maneuvering. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and wait for Tuorel to ride me down, he thought. The brilliant wrath of his bloodline caught fire in his veins, and with a ringing cry that carried over the entire battlefield, he shouted, “Knights Guardian! Take the enemy standard!

  Charge!”

  He spurred Blackbrand ahead, leaping into the fray, as his friends and followers drove after him. Churning up divots of mud, the mighty stallion flattened anyone in his path. In an unearthly silence, Gaelin’s world brightened and condensed until there was nothing beyond his body, the horse beneath him, and the line of Ghoeran knights only a spear’s throw away.

  His blood burned like molten gold in his heart, and the world came to a halt as each hoofbeat, each
stride, carried him one step closer to glorious annihilation. The Wolf of Ghoere fluttered just beyond the front ranks, and beside it Gaelin saw the black, wolf-graven armor of Noered Tuorel. He screamed a wordless challenge, and the world went black as the two lines of knights collided in the center of the battle.

  A lance point shattered on Gaelin’s shield, jarring him to his toes and knocking the breath out of his body, and Blackbrand met another horse breast-to-breast and drove the smaller animal to the ground. Horses screamed, and men roared and shrieked in a hellish chorus. For a moment, Gaelin was lost in a senseless whirlwind of impact and chaos as he crashed through the Ghoerans, hammering his sword down on anyone nearby as the battle carried them out of his reach.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Boeric fall from the saddle, unhorsed by a Ghoeran lance, but Erin reached out to catch the Falcon banner before it fell. Shouting defiantly, she led the Mhorien knights toward Gaelin, while Lord Anduine guarded the standard against a furious attack.

  “Gaelin Mhoried!” Despite the maelstrom of noise and confusion that surrounded him, Gaelin heard his name cutting through the chaos, ringing in challenge. Tuorel was fighting his way toward him, and Gaelin turned Blackbrand with his knees and cut down a Ghoeran knight who stood between them. As the battle hung in the balance, he came sword-to-sword with Tuorel. “Are you ready to die, Gaelin?” Tuorel screamed. “Your reign ends today!”

  Gaelin stood in his stirrups to smash his heavy sword down on the baron, but Tuorel parried the blow with a sword that gleamed with silver fire. With unearthly quickness, the baro n returned Gaelin’s blow, and only a desperate block with his shield saved Gaelin from injury. Tuorel struck again before Gaelin could manage a reply of his own, a blow that glanced o ff Gaelin’s helm and left his ears ringing. The sword’s enchanted, he realized. The flow of the battle pushed him past Tuorel, and he recovered his balance and readied his sword as he turned Blackbrand to face the Wolf of Ghoere again.

  “You murdered my father, my brother, my sister! I will have vengeance, Tuorel!” Gaelin spurred Blackbrand ahead, resuming the attack. He closed within striking range and unleashed a fusillade of hacks and thrusts, trying to pierce Tuorel’s guard. But the baron parried or deflected each blow, his sword leaping to meet Gaelin’s steel with liquid speed and grace. As they fought past each other again, Tuorel managed to slip the blade under Gaelin’s guard. The sword cut through Gaelin’s breastplate like a razor through soft leather, gouging a long and bloody slash on his left side.

  Gaelin bit back a cry of pain, reared, and spun around to follow Tuorel, attacking from the baron’s left flank. Even without the enchantments of his blade, Tuorel was a superb swordsman, one of the best Gaelin had ever seen, and he twisted in his saddle to parry behind his back and then slash at Gaelin backhanded. While Gaelin tried to recover, the baron wheeled his own horse, and brought his weapon down in an overpowering blow that Gaelin could only meet with the flat of his blade.

  Gaelin’s sword shattered into a dozen pieces. Tuorel’s blow slapped against his helm again, but most of the baron’s strength had been spent by breaking the sword, and his stroke only dazed Gaelin. Tuorel shouted in triumph and unhorsed him with the next swing; Gaelin tumbled heavily to the ground and landed badly, losing his breath again as blood streamed through the rents in his armor.

  His vision blurring, Gaelin raised himself to his knees and shook his head. A few feet away, Tuorel slid down from his saddle and advanced, raising his sword for the coup de grace.

  “The Mhoried blood is mine,” Tuorel cackled. “The Iron Throne is in my grasp!”

  “Not while I live, you bastard,” Gaelin growled. Suddenly, it came upon him again, the crystalline certainty and divine fire that dispelled his pain and exhaustion like a white-hot flame shrivelling a scrap of paper. Beneath his hand, he felt the haft of a fallen knight’s mace, a wicked weapon nearly four feet long, with a head of iron flanges.

  “We’ll remedy that in a moment,” Tuorel snarled. He lunged forward, stabbing at Gaelin’s heart.

  Gaelin seized the handle of the mace and exploded into motion. The strength of his blood empowered him, quickened his reflexes and his aim. The world seemed to slow in comparison. The heavy mace was light as a willow switch in his hand, and as he rose he brought its iron head in a long swing that caught Tuorel under his raised arm and crumpled his armor like tin. The force of the blow threw the baron spinning through the air to land heavily ten feet away. Gaelin leapt after him, swinging again.

  Tuorel wheezed, a great bloody exhalation from his shattered ribs, and turned to parry Gaelin’s strike. But Gaelin beat down his guard and shattered Tuorel’s shoulder, smashing the baron to the ground and jarring the enchanted sword from the baron’s grasp. The blade spun away to lie in the mud, its gleam fading. Tuorel screamed in pain and rage.

  “No! He promised me! He promised me!”

  In his white fire, Gaelin heard the baron’s words. He raised the mace one more time and crushed the fearsome wolf-visage of Tuorel’s helm. The helmet crumpled, as Tuorel’s neck snapped and his corpse slammed into the ground. Gaelin sank to his knees, suddenly exhausted beyond his endurance, uncaring of the battle that still went on around him.

  Behind him, the wolf-standard fell as Lord Anduine dragged it down. As his senses darkened toward unconsciousness, Gaelin heard the thunder of Baesil’s cavalrymen returning to the fray.

  *****

  Gaelin remembered little of the rest of the battle. He suspected he’d relied too long on the brilliant wrath to sustain him, and he had driven himself past his human limits. His limbs were weak, his sight was dim, and sounds seemed distant and far away. It was as if some elemental fury had burned itself to ashes, leaving him as cold and empty as an autumn husk. Somehow, his guards and captains carried him through the rest of the day.

  He wondered what it was in his blood, in his heritage, that touched him in battle. As far as he knew, no Mhorieds had ever manifested the divine wrath, as it was sometimes called.

  It had enabled him to survive the day, and he had harnessed its power to defeat Tuorel. Like many of the gifts of the blood, it was inexplicable, and Gaelin guessed he would have to leave it as a matter of faith. Within a couple of hours, another of his divine birthrights made itself felt – the mortal exhaustion that had nearly killed him after his fight with Tuorel faded quickly, as his unnatural knack for healing restored him to his normal vigor.

  By sunset, Gaelin’s armies commanded the battlefield. The stand of the Knights Guardian, combined with Baesil Ceried’s flanking maneuver, had broken the goblin charge and set the Markazorans to flight. Although they were decimated by the goblin ambush, the surviving archers and cavalry continued on to the southern engagement and attacked the Ghoeran host in the rear. Leaderless and surrounded, the army of Ghoere was hammered to pieces on the anvil of the Dieman and Haelynite knighthood; Seriene’s magic was of immense value in the resolution of the southern battle. Although hundreds of the Ghoeran marauders escaped the field, the bulk of Ghoere’s army surrendered or perished by the shores of Lake Winoene.

  That evening, Mhor Gaelin entertained his allies in the great hall of Caer Winoene with the most lavish feast he could arrange. Prince Vandiel, Seriene, and the leaders of the Dieman host attended, although Vandiel’s arm was in a sling.

  The knights of Haelyn were there as well, but their mood was subdued; the high prefect had fallen in the fighting. Brother Superior Huire served as the leader of the Haelynite contingent, although he declined the title of high prefect until he could be installed in the Abbey of the Red Oak. Several of the Mhorien lords had perished as well, though Counts Torien and Ceried survived the day without hurt. For Gaelin, it felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Erin sat beside him during the feast, in the place reserved for the Mhor’s consort.

  Despite the Mhor’s obvious involvement with his herald, Prince Vandiel still took the time to draw Gaelin aside and invite him to consider courting Seriene. “Af
ter all, she is a princess equal to your own station, and I greatly desire a more lasting union between our two ancient bloodlines,” he said.

  “Princess Seriene is a woman of great beauty, intelligence, and charm,” Gaelin agreed. “But I am afraid my heart belongs to another. However, I understand your son is not engaged, and I will point out that my sister Ilwyn is a beautiful and charming girl. I’m not above a little matchmaking, if we’re not obvious about it.”

  “Nor am I,” Vandiel agreed with a sly grin. “I shall plan a hunting trip up here in the fall, and bring Aeran along. We’ll see what happens.”

  After the meal, Gaelin leaned over and kissed Erin. It seemed to him she had never been as radiant as she was at that moment. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Ready? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to announce our betrothal,” he said.

  Erin covered her mouth with her hand, and her eyes widened. “Gaelin, you can’t! You don’t know…”

  He caught her hand in his. “Do you want to be my wife?”

  “They’ll never stand for it, Gaelin. You can’t marry a commoner!”

  “Erin, I wouldn’t call you common. And you didn’t answer my question. If it didn’t matter, would you marry me?”

  She held his eyes for a moment longer, and then her resistance gave out. “Yes. Yes, Gaelin, I would.”

  He brushed a tear from her cheek. “Then let’s see what the lords of Mhoried have to say.” He stood up abruptly, and raised his voice to carry over the laughter and music in the hall. “Lords and ladies of Mhoried! Honored guests! I wish to announce that I have decided to take a wife.” The hall broke into wild cheers, as the gathered Mhoriens and Diemans applauded, and it was some time before it was quiet enough to continue. Gaelin paused dramatically. “I present the Lady Erin Graysong, the next queen of Mhoried!”