“They were only suspicions, unconfirmed. I had only the merest indication of sorcery at work and thought to investigate.
I didn’t know it was a prelude to war.” Bannier restrained a scowl. Tiery’s questioning was placing him in danger. Even now, the Mhor contemplated him with renewed interest.
“That might have been a reasonable assumption,” the Mhor said. He gave Bannier one more hard look. “Well, it’s in the past now. Tell me, Bannier, can you aid us in driving Ghoere back across the river? If the Sword Mage is helping him, can you defend us?”
Bannier took up a cautious pacing, circling the room as he pretended to study the map. “I believe so,” he said after a suitable length of time. “But I will need a day or two to consider my options.”
The Mhor seemed to hope for something more substantial, but he knew magic of the sort that could affect the course of a war was dangerous and hard to come by. “Very well, then,” he said. “I plan to ride for Riumache tomorrow, but if you think you might have some answers for me by tomorrow evening, I will delay my departure.”
“Please, proceed as you have planned,” Bannier said. “I can always contact you if I think of something.” He feigned a yawn. “My lord, my journey was quite tiring, and I have much work to do. Would you please excuse me?”
The Mhor nodded. With a shallow bow, Bannier took his leave. The guards who had escorted him to the Mhor’s quarters had left already; a bit of good fortune, since it indicated he wasn’t under any serious suspicion. He made a conscious effort to suppress the spring in his step as he left.
Bannier first headed back toward his tower, threading his way through the great hall, taking care to be seen by a number of people. Then he abruptly changed his heading and turned to a set of disused stairs that led into the castle’s lower levels. Shieldhaven’s storerooms, wells, and cellars were carved into the heart of the rocky tor on which it rested. Vault after vault lay beneath the Mhor’s halls. Only a few were in use, and Bannier avoided these as he descended into the belly of the fortress.
In a few minutes, he found the room he had marked. It was an old wine cellar, long and low, most of its tuns long since removed.
Exits on opposite sides of the chamber led up to the cellars of the gatehouse and the keep itself. Bannier checked to make certain no one was within earshot and satisfied himself that he was unobserved.
Crossing the chamber, Bannier examined the few remaining tuns and found the one for which he was looking. He opened it with a hidden catch. Inside lay a small satchel of canvas.
From the satchel, Bannier retrieved a dozen small pots of paint, along with an assortment of brushes. He selected a bare stretch of wall in the center of the room and quickly wiped it free of cobwebs and dust with the sleeve of his robe. Then, humming a strange and discordant melody, he began to create a pattern on the wall. First he drew a man-high circle of silvered paint and a second circle a handspan outside that one. Then, using first one paint and then another, he began to mark runes and diagrams around the ring. Some required him to chant spells of warding or passage softly under his breath; others he simply marked with rapid precision.
It took hours of exacting work to finish the gate’s border and to speak the words that brought it to life. The last few words left him so weak that he could not stand; an enchantment of this power was never easy, and even more difficult considering the effort he had expended earlier. Somehow, he found the force of will to speak the last syllable.
A thin, blue aura sprang into being around the gateway, shimmering and dancing. The wall enclosed by the ring seemed to fade or vanish, and in its place a portal of swirling darkness and streaming azure fire opened. The air of the old cellar crackled with energy, and Bannier’s breath was sucked away by the force of the air rushing past. He scrambled farther away, dragging himself to his feet by the row of great tuns opposite the gate.
With a flash of light, a man in armor appeared. He stood, disoriented for a moment, and then he spied Bannier and strode over to him. Before he reached the wizard, the gate flashed again, and another man – a common soldier – stood in the archway. The armored man reached Bannier, and with one gauntleted hand he raised his visor. Baron Noered Tuorel grinned at Bannier. “Well met, master wizard!” he said, speaking loudly to carry over the chaos of the gateway. “You were only a quarter-hour late.”
“That door leads to the gatehouse,” Bannier said, pointing.
“The other leads to the keep. You know where the Mhor’s chambers are?”
Tuorel nodded. “Baehemon’s men mapped the castle when he visited. They’ll be able to lead us. How long can you keep the gate open? I’ve five hundred men to bring through.”
“If they move smartly, I’ll hold it for them all,” Bannier answered. Tuorel grinned again, and then wheeled about to give orders to the Ghoeran soldiers who were massing in the vault. With grim determination, Bannier concentrated on maintaining the gate to the end of his strength.
*****
The small hours of the morning found the Mhor Daeric pacing restlessly in his chambers. In recent years, the nights had held less and less sleep for him; some would have said the cares of ruling a kingdom were wearing him down, but Daeric knew it was a deepening sense of loneliness. He missed his wife terribly, even after all these years. “Aesele, I could use your strength now,” he murmured. “I’ve a long, hard labor before me, and I’m feeling my years tonight.”
Daeric paused in front of the great shuttered window that looked out over the city of Bevaldruor, a glass of brandy in his hand. In the warm darkness of the chamber, he almost imagined he could hear her light footfalls. He cocked his head, listening, but decided his ears had been playing tricks on him. He sipped the liquor, hoping to calm his racing mind and find some semblance of rest before joining his army in the field on the morrow. Instead of drowsiness the brandy brought him a supernatural clarity of thought. With a sigh, he set down the empty glass and peered out into the darkness.
His chamber overlooked the castle’s courtyard, the gatehouse, and the fields beyond.
Shadows flitted along the battlements, and one of the lantern lights of the gatehouse flickered and went out. Daeric frowned. He’d almost thought he had seen armed men on the battlements, moving stealthily toward the gates. He extinguished his own light, an oil lamp, and stepped back to the window, using the shutter for concealment. As his eyes attuned themselves to the darkness, he searched the battlements for signs of movement.
There! There it was again. Squinting, Daeric could make out a half-dozen forms, now gathered before an iron-plated door that led from the open battlements into the castle itself.
Light glinted from the edges of bared swords and knives. As the band of intruders quietly opened the door, dim lantern light flooded the battlements for a moment, and Daeric caught a glimpse of red and blue livery. He gasped and recoiled from the window. Ghoerans here? But how?
After he recovered from his momentary shock, Daeric darted across the room and opened the door leading to the hall. Two of the castellan’s guards stood there in full arms and armor, assigned to protect him from a possible assassination attempt. Both clattered to attention in panic when he threw the door open – it had been a long and quiet watch until now.
The senior of the two, a battle-tempered sergeant, recovered first. “My lord Mhor?” he said. “Is there anything you need, sir?”
“Ghoerans have infiltrated Shieldhaven,” Daeric said.
“Sergeant, stay here with me. Trooper, I want you to rouse the guard captain immediately and sound the alarm.”
Both guards stared at him blankly for a moment. Daeric realized they thought he’d taken leave of his senses. “I saw them on the battlements,” he said. “Now, get moving! I have no idea how many may be inside already.”
“Sir! At once, sir,” the other guard said. With a worried glance at his partner, he sprinted off down the hall, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Guards! Enemies in the castle! Awake!”
It was an ancient heirloom of the family; he snatched it from the wall and thrust the blade through his belt before stepping back into the hall.
In the thirty or forty heartbeats it had taken him to get dressed, the sergeant had literally dragged Thendiere and his sisters Liesele and Ilwyn from their respective rooms. All three had sense enough to keep quiet, although Ilwyn was shaking with fright. “What’s happening, Father?” she asked in a fraying voice.
“Ghoere’s men are in the castle. Come on – they’ll be trying to reach the royal quarters, and we must move.” With the sergeant beside him, Daeric turned down a servant’s passage and headed for the great hall. There were guardposts and visiting knights and courtiers there; with any luck, they’d find enough swordarms to organize a defense of the castle. The passage led to a tight staircase that spiraled down to the floor of the hall. Daeric allowed the sergeant to lead, while Thendiere brought up the rear, hefting his heavy cane as a weapon.
At the bottom of the stair, an old oaken door opened into the hall. The sergeant set his hand on the latch, but the Mhor caught his arm. “Carefully,” he said. The sergeant glanced at him and nodded, edging the door open a few inches so Daeric could see the room beyond.
A hundred or more Ghoeran soldiers stood in silence in Shieldhaven’s hall. A score of Mhorien guards, servants, and courtiers sat on the floor, hands on their heads, under the watchful eyes of Ghoerans detailed to watch over the prisoners.
Scattered around the hall, there were a handful of bodies sprawled limply on the floor – guardsmen who had tried to fight for the hall, along with a Ghoeran or two. The Mhor studied the disciplined ranks of enemy soldiers standing in his own hall, astounded at their numbers. How in the world did that many men get inside without being seen? he thought. What manner of treachery was this? Carefully, he pulled the door shut again, hoping no one had spotted them.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Thendiere said.
“There must be a hundred Ghoerans in the hall,” the Mhor replied. “How many more are elsewhere in the castle? For that matter, how many guardsmen do we have to lead against them?”
“My lord, there were one hundred and thirty of us on the duty roster tonight,” the sergeant replied. “That’s enough to man the gatehouse, the towers, and the battlements against an assault.”
Mhor Daeric ground his teeth. “Apparently not.” He looked around in the dark passageway, thinking. Whatever they did, they couldn’t remain where they were for long. He considered the men he’d seen on the battlements and in the hall. “By my guess, the garrison’s outnumbered two to one, or worse, and the enemy’s seized the castle already,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we can retake the castle with the guards that are left. Clearly, our enemy knows us quite well, and they’ve made certain that we wouldn’t be able to fight back.”
The Mhor paused, meeting the eyes of his children. It occurred to him that they were children no longer, but men and women with strengths and capabilities he could no longer measure. “Fighting for Shieldhaven is out of the question, and surrender strikes me as unacceptable. Our only remaining alternative is flight. If Tuorel takes our castle but we slip through his fingers, we’ll call this night a stalemate.”
“I hate the thought of abandoning Shieldhaven without a fight,” Thendiere said.
The Mhor forced a shrug. “It’s already happened, whether we like it or not. Now, let’s see if they’ve thought to guard the old sally port under Bannier’s tower.” They backtracked down the passage and then chose a broad hallway running through a portion of the castle reserved for visiting nobles.
Daeric would have liked to find a less well-traveled route, but unfortunately none headed the way they wanted to go. They had almost reached the bend at the end of the corridor when four Ghoeran guards abruptly turned the corner in front of them. Without hesitation, the Mhor threw himself forward, slashing at the lead man – these guards stood between them and escape. The guard sergeant and Thendiere followed a moment later.
“Careful, lads!” cried one of the Ghoerans. “The old one’s the Mhor! Don’t kill him!” Daeric’s opponent was an excellent swordsman who parried his blows while looking for a chance to disarm him. Beside him, the sergeant felled his man with a sturdy thrust to the chest, but then spun to the ground a moment later as a Ghoeran slashed his face open. Liesele stooped and picked up the sergeant’s sword, swinging it recklessly with both hands as she flailed away at the fellow who’d felled the sergeant.
Daeric’s arm was growing tired already, and a dozen aches and protests were announcing themselves throughout his body. He snarled in frustration – the fight was noisy and was costing them time they didn’t have. Thendiere hopped about awkwardly, barely defending himself with his cane, and lured his opponent into reach of Daeric’s sword. The Mhor quickly turned from his opponent and stabbed Thendiere’s foe under the arm. The man coughed and staggered back a few steps before falling. Then the man he’d been fighting stepped close and landed a solid punch on the side of his head with his sword hilt. Daeric’s world turned upside down and he reeled to the floor, stars flashing across his vision.
Daeric’s arms and legs refused to work. Clumsily, he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He realized that it had suddenly become quiet; the clang of sword on sword was gone. Raising his head, he saw Liesele sliding down the wall, her face open with astonishment as her hands clutched at a spreading stain of blood in the center of her stomach. Her lips were blue and her face was white with shock. She tried to say something, but he couldn’t hear it for the ringing in his ears.
He was still watching her when her eyes went blank and she slumped over on the floor.
“Liesele,” he moaned. With a cry of rage, he started to rise.
As he looked around, he saw Thendiere standing by the wall, holding a maimed hand. The prince’s cane and two of his fingers lay on the floor, but his pain was forgotten as he stared at his sister’s body. Ilwyn was huddled a few steps farther back, petrified with terror. The remaining two Ghoerans were down as well, the leader with Liesele’s sword buried in his chest. The Mhor let his eyes close for a long moment, shutting out the sight.
“Mhor Daeric.”
Daeric looked up again. At the end of the hall, a dozen more Ghoeran soldiers stood, waiting. In front, a man in black armor with a helm worked to resemble a wolf’s head watched him. Although his head still swam, Daeric somehow came to his feet, although he weaved drunkenly. A lean, brown figure stood beside the wolf-knight. Bannier looked on, his eyes unreadable. “Prince Thendiere, Princess Ilwyn, my lord Mhor,” he said flatly. “Please, do not exert yourselves.
The sally port is guarded.”
His mind drifting in and out of focus, Daeric forced himself to respond. “You betrayed me. I knew you lied when Tiery asked you what you had been doing. Tell me, was Ghoere’s invasion your work?” He noticed he had blood in his mouth, and his tongue felt thick. “Bannier – why?”
The wizard merely looked away. Beside him, the armored man stepped forward and raised his wolf-visor. Baron Noered Tuorel’s cruel features were fixed in bloodthirsty delight.
“I have wondered why, as well,” he said. “But when Bannier offered to deliver Shieldhaven into my hands, I decided that his reasons meant nothing to me.” His eyes flicked past Daeric to the human wreckage at the end of the hall. “An admirable performance, my lord Mhor, besting four of my soldiers.”
He strode forward, his soldiers following with readied weapons. His eyes fell to Liesele’s body, slumped on the
floor.
Tuorel frowned in distaste. “Just as well you defeated them,” he added. “I would have had them executed for killing your daughter.”
“Burn in Azrai’s hells,” Daeric said weakly. He looked past Tuorel to Bannier. “You, too, Bannier. I thought you were my friend.”
The wizard’s face tightened. He raised his hands and muttered some unintelligible phrase or command, and suddenly white light flashed from his fingertips. Daeric felt his knees buckling, but he lost consciousness before he hit the floor.
Chapter Six
After a restless hour shivering in his bedroll, Gaelin rose at daybreak. The sunrise was obscured by the dense fog and steady rainfall, and the day began with a feeble lightening of the gray darkness that left Gaelin gloomy and irritable. Erin had rolled a heavy blanket over her shoulders and dozed lightly; she roused quickly when she heard Gaelin and his companions stirring. He noticed she seemed less fatigued than he might have expected of someone who had traveled most of the night.
They breakfasted on cold biscuits, wedges of dry cheddar, and tough hunks of summer sausage. Ruide had made sure that they were well provisioned before leaving Mhoried, but the weather made the food seem bland and tasteless. Half an hour after sunrise, they left their camp, riding north – toward Riumache – on the old river pike.
The weather dampened their spirits. Gaelin was preoccupied with the tidings of war, trying to imagine what his father might be doing in response to the Ghoeran invasion. Finally he decided he would put the matter out of his mind until he was in a position to do something about it.
He started paying attention to the ride, keeping a wary eye on the lands through which they rode. They remained near the river, following an old cart track that paralleled the Maesil a couple of miles inland. Alamie’s riverbank was low and marshy, and the sodden countryside was only thinly settled.
Low-lying stands of cedars and cypress dotted the landscape, with numerous creeks and bogs, and the track meandered around these obstacles. The morning fog persisted all day long, covering the land in gloomy mist.
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