Another day of hard riding brought the Mhorien band to the town of Iered, across the Stonebyrn river from Mhoried.
Leaving Maesan’s troops camped outside of the town, Gaelin rode ahead with Ruide, Madislav, Erin, and the captain to hire the boats they needed.
They glimpsed the ivy-grown towers and the crumbling walls of Iered Castle, but in the fields outside the town itself they found an encampment of Alamien soldiers. Gaelin guessed that three or four hundred men were quartered here.
Is Duke Alam sending a force to our aid, he wondered, or is he taking steps to keep the fighting on Mhoried’s side of the Stonebyrn?
A few moments later, his question was answered as a young Alamien officer led a squad of a dozen halberdiers to Gaelin and his companions. The officer surveyed their party, and then addressed Maesan. “Captain, am I correct in assuming that you are in command of your column?”
Maesan, without glancing at any of the others, replied, “You are, sir.”
The young officer – a lieutenant, if Gaelin read his insignia correctly – nodded. “I must inform you that your men are not permitted to enter the town, sir. There are Ghoeran troops here, and we have been ordered to make sure your war stays on your side of the river.”
“But the Ghoerans may remain in the town, where they enjoy access to your supplies and transportation?”
The Alamien shrugged. “My apologies, Captain, but they were here first. They’re paying good gold for their foodstuffs and the use of the ferries. And, as long as your troops are in the area, the Ghoerans will not be permitted to leave Iered.”
Gaelin thought it a reasonable compromise for the Alamiens.
Of course, that did not touch on the awkward subject of the status of Alamie’s alliance with Mhoried. Duke Alam was sworn to offer aid to the Mhor and deny comfort to his enemies in time of war. He stared over the river, as if he could by force of will pierce the miles that lay between him and his home. What was Tuorel up to? He looked back to the Alamiens. “Do you have any idea how long the Ghoerans will be? We want to hire a boat as soon as possible.”
The lieutenant replied, “I’m not sure, Sir Knight. Their supply ferries have been crossing for three days.” With hard glances at the Alamien soldiers, the Mhoriens turned and rode out of town.
“We could be days waiting for the Ghoerans to finish their business in Iered,” said Maesan. “I think we should ride into town in the middle of the night and steal their boats, supplies and all.”
“No, that’s not why we’re here,” Gaelin said. He chewed his lip, thinking. “Ruide, do you still have that atlas?”
“Of course, my lord.” Ruide rifled through his saddlebags for a moment before handing the well-worn book to Gaelin.
Alamie’s page was marked. Gaelin studied it for a moment, examining the lands along the Stonebyrn.
“Here,” he said, pointing at a village called Norbank.
“There’s another ferry here, one Ghoere may not be using yet.
It looks like a ride of forty or forty-five miles.” He thought for a moment, considering times and distances. “All right, we’ll keep going north, and we’ll cross at Norbank.”
In the cold hours before dawn, the Mhoriens broke camp, rode past Iered, and headed north at a breakneck pace.
Horses stumbling in exhaustion, Gaelin and his company reached the tiny landing of Norbank hours after sunset. They sighted a handful of pickets or outriders through the course of the day, but no one had tried to stop them.
“If they kept up with that day’s ride, they deserve to catch us,” Gaelin announced as they trotted into the village. Despite the cool drizzle that had fallen all day, he felt hot, sweaty, and dirty. Forty miles in a single day was hard on both men and horses.
Madislav dismounted with a groan of relief and kneaded his backside with his hands. “Looks quiet enough,” he said, nodding toward the village.
Gaelin agreed. In the darkness, he could make out a cluster of four or five small buildings by the riverbank. A blanket of fog covered the river, masking the cold waters under a field of white mist. The ferry itself was little more than a roughhewn raft hauled up on the shoreline beside one of the buildings.
“Well, let’s wake the ferryman,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of waiting till morning to cross.”
Maesan called out orders to several of his men, who began to thump on doors in search of the ferrymaster’s home. As the soldiers woke the townsmen, Maesan posted guards to watch the road, and then divided his men into sixes to organize their crossing. “I want to get some of my men over before I send you, my lord,” he said to Gaelin. “I’ve no idea what could be hiding on the far bank in the darkness.”
“That’s not necessary, Captain.”
“My lord prince, your father instructed the countess to guard you well,” Maesan said. “Please, let me do my job.”
Gaelin scowled. “Very well. Send your scouts first. I’ll wait until you’re ready.” Dismounting, Gaelin led Blackbrand over to an open stable in the courtyard of a small inn, off to one side of the ferry landing. He found some warm straw and started to rub the horse’s legs down while the stallion happily drank his fill from a watering trough. In the darkness, he could hear voices rising in anger as the ferryman protested the hour and Maesan politely insisted on crossing immediately.
A moment later, Erin appeared at the stable door, lead – ing her own mount.
“It seems we have a little time before we cross,” she said.
Her face was pale and drawn in the darkness, and Gaelin imagined his own fatigue must be showing as well. With a sigh, Erin began to tend to her horse. “Poor girl,” she murmured.
“You’ve had a long day.”
“We’ll be able to rest a bit when we cross into Mhoried,” Gaelin offered. “A few hours, at least. For that matter, we’ll have an hour or so right now.”
Erin looked up and smiled. “Right now, I think I’m too tired to sleep, if you can imagine such a thing.”
A companionable silence fell between them as they both worked on their horses, rubbing the animals’ legs and brushing their coats. After a time, Gaelin said, “You know, I don’t know much about you. We’ve spent days talking about Shieldhaven and my family, but you’ve said nothing of yourself.”
Erin glanced at him over her horse’s back. “There’s not much to tell. My mother was a minor noblewoman of Coeranys, and my father was an elf of Siellaghriod. A mixed heritage isn’t looked on too kindly in some lands, but I was well cared for.”
“I traveled through Coeranys once, a few years ago.”
“I haven’t been back there for years.” Erin paused. “I miss the place. It doesn’t rain as much as it does here, and the winters aren’t as cold. There’s something about the land that you’re raised in. It becomes a part of you.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I suppose you would, prince of Mhoried. I’m looking forward to seeing your homeland.” Erin loosened the saddle straps for her horse, but left the saddle in place.
“Don’t you miss your family?” Gaelin asked. The minstrel stopped for a moment. Her back was to him, and even in the darkness Gaelin could see her shoulders tense. He straightened from his work.
“My mother died some time ago,” she said carefully, resuming her work. “I’ve never met my father. My mother’s kin sent me away as soon as they could, rather than raise a halfelven child born out of wedlock. The White Hall was the only place that would take me in.” She turned her head, glancing over her shoulder at Gaelin. “Keep that to yourself, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not be the talk of the court.”
“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” Erin didn’t reply, and Gaelin finished his work on Blackbrand in silence.
“My lord Gaelin!” Ruide called from the ferry landing, his voice high and clear.
Gaelin took up Blackbrand’s reins. “Ready?”
Erin turned away and led her mare back into the mist and the night. Gaelin followed with Bla
ckbrand a moment later.
At the landing, they found Maesan directing a small knot of his men as they boarded the ferry. Half a dozen grumbling villagers worked the boat, waiting for the next load of soldiers.
Maesan saluted as Gaelin approached. “Your turn next,” he said. “I’ve sent twenty men over, and they signal that all’s quiet on the Mhorien bank.”
“Good. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Gaelin said. He coaxed Blackbrand onto the boat, leading the horse to a hitching post at one end. The boat rocked beneath the animal’s weight, and Blackbrand snorted distrustfully. Erin, Madislav, and two of Maesan’s soldiers filed in behind him to fill the boat.
“All right, that’s enough for this trip,” the ferrymaster barked. “Shove off!” Grunting with effort, the villagers leaned into their poles and pushed into the current. The river fog closed in around them almost immediately, and it seemed to Gaelin that he was drifting in some mournful netherworld, cold, wet, and lightless.
“Gaelin, look!” Erin clutched his arm and pointed back toward the Alamien village. He peered into the darkness and saw dozens of bobbing orange haloes sweeping into the town. The fog obscured the details, but he could see that riders bearing torches were rushing onto the landing. Shouts and the ringing of weapons reached his ears, muffled and distorted by the clinging mists.
“The Ghoerans must have been closer than we thought,” rumbled Madislav.
“Ferryman! Take us back!” Gaelin said. “We’ve got to get the rest of the guards out of there!”
“I counted thirty-odd soldiers with horses waiting to cross, boy,” said the master of the boat. “We can’t take them all in one trip. Besides, you probably don’t want to be in the middle of that.”
Gaelin gripped the rail. “Half my men are back there!”
“So? The six men in this boat won’t make a difference, Mhorien. I’m not putting this ferry about until the fighting’s over.” The ferryman challenged Gaelin with an angry glare.
“Thanks for bringing your war down on my head.”
Gaelin took a step toward the man without realizing what he was doing, balling his fist. The fellow stood his ground defiantly.
For a tense moment, Gaelin held his gaze, until a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.
“He is right, Gaelin,” Madislav said. “We must be keeping you away from Ghoere, and Captain Maesan will have to fight without us.” He peered off into the darkness. “I think he is not outnumbered too badly. He may drive them off yet, eh?”
Gaelin stood, watching, as the bargemen continued to pull for the other shore. The fighting receded into the night as they drifted further into the river. He couldn’t stand the idea that he was running from a fight in which Mhorien soldiers were standing against an enemy in his name. Deliberately, he turned his back on the echoes of the conflict and strode to the front of the boat. The Mhorien bank was just ahead, a black mass looming out of the shadow and mist.
“We’ll wait until daybreak and then see who holds the town,” he said after a moment. Instead of the relief he’d expected, there was only a cold and ashen feeling in his heart as the boat grounded on Mhoried’s shores.
Chapter Seven
The cell door opened with a rusty creak of protest. Mhor Daeric blinked in the sudden light of lanterns that seared his dark-adjusted eyes. He’d lost track of how long he had been incarcerated in his own dungeons. He guessed it was only a day or a day and a half, but with nothing to measure but the darkness and silence, it was impossible to tell. His head still ached, and there was a throbbing knot of pain right at the hinge of his jaw, but his thoughts were clear, and he no longer felt dizzy or nauseated. As best he could, he rose to confront his guards.
“Baron Tuorel wants to see you,” grated a voice behind a lantern. The soldiers dragged him from his cell and escorted him from the dungeons to the lower levels of the castle.
Daeric did his best to mask his shock at the number of Ghoeran soldiers who had mysteriously appeared in his castle.
The guards led him into the castle’s chapel. The black-clad Iron Guard of Ghoere lined the walls, silent as oiled steel. By the chamber’s doors waited a handful of Ghoeran knights and lords, the leaders of Tuorel’s armies. They watched Daeric enter with mingled contempt and triumph on their faces. The Mhor let his eyes slide past these lesser wolves, but he spied a face he knew. “Dhalsiel?” he said, pausing in his stride. “I see you’ve finally found companions suited to you. What was your price?”
The young count sneered. “I received no bribe,” he said in a contemptuous voice. “I serve those who are strong enough to deserve my allegiance. Baron Tuorel will set matters right in Mhoried.”
“If you betrayed your allegiance for that, you’re stupider than I thought.” Daeric turned his back on the Mhorien lord and marched ahead to the center of the room to meet his foe.
Baron Tuorel was standing in the center of the room, waiting for him with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes smoldered with a fierce hunger, a tangible desire for power that leaped to Daeric as he entered the room. Daeric glanced past Tuorel to take in the rest of the room. The emblems of Haelyn had been replaced by the signs of Cuiraecen, the Anuirean god of war. Red-robed priests clustered around the altar, watching him.
The baron nodded. “Good day, my lord Mhor,” he said. “I trust your accommodations have not been too intolerable?”
“Forgive me, baron,” Daeric replied. “I just smelled something that turned my stomach, and I’m in no mood to banter.”
“Ah, young Count Dhalsiel. I suspect that your Baesil Ceried will sorely miss his troops in Cwlldon.” Tuorel smiled.
“My army should meet yours within the day, I expect.”
“I’m surprised you’re not there to lead your army in person.”
“Lord Baehemon is capable of supervising the destruction of Ceried’s force. Besides, I have matters requiring my attention in Shieldhaven, as you can see.”
“Well, get on with it, then.” The expectation of his imminent death did not disturb Daeric – he felt only sadness that his beloved Mhoried would fall under the heel of a conquering tyrant without a Mhor to defend it.
Tuorel’s false grin faded. “Very well, I’ll set to business.”
He stalked forward, halting an arm’s reach from the Mhor.
His eyes were cold as a serpent’s. “It is my intent to divest you of the rule of Mhoried,” he said. “You will participate in the ceremony of investiture and pass to me the lordship of your kingdom.”
Daeric managed to contain his surprise, keeping his face an iron mask. Blooded lords who ruled kingdoms – as the Mhor did, and Tuorel, for that matter – enjoyed a mystical link to the lands they ruled, above and beyond the innate power they inherited from their ancestral lines. In a very real sense, the Mhor was Mhoried, and the strength of Mhoried’s wild and untamed lands, the hardiness and character of her people, surrounded him. The union of bloodline and realm lived in his veins. Presumably, Tuorel shared the same sort of bond with Ghoere.
Frowning, Daeric sought a glimpse of what was in Tuorel’s mind. Any blooded scion could wrest the power of his bloodline from Daeric by committing bloodtheft. In fact, the power of all the Mhorieds could be claimed by the lord who killed the last Mhoried. But if Daeric died heirless, the tenuous link between him and the country he ruled would simply dissipate. By acquiescing to Tuorel and willingly transferring the mystical link to the baron, Daeric would pass the divine right to rule Mhoried to Tuorel intact and unweakened. There was something much more important than himself, or his family, at stake here.
“Why, Tuorel? What do you hope to gain from this?”
Tuorel paced away, his gestures betraying a growing impatience.
“One way or another, I mean for Mhoried’s strength to be mine. Isn’t it obvious? With Mhoried anchoring my northern flank, and Elinie my eastern marches, I can bring the rest of the heartlands to my banner within a year.”
“To what point?” asked Daeric.
“I mean to have the Iron Throne,” Tuorel said. “Once Anuire was the greatest of nations, an empire that stretched from the Sea of Storms to the Sea of Dragons. Now, look at us.
Five centuries of strife and disorder have brought us to our knees. I will end that. If peace must be found at the point of a sword, then so be it.” He stepped close to Daeric, close enough that only the Mhor would hear his words. “I am the one, Daeric,” he said, a glimmer of feverish intensity showing in his eyes. “It’s been shown to me. I must have the strength. I will have the strength.”
The Mhor met Tuorel’s gaze. “My question remains unanswered,” he said. “You cannot rule Mhoried until I allow it.
You may hold the lands, you may murder and threaten the people, you can even wrest the power of the Mhoried blood from me and my children – but the divine right to rule the land will not be yours until I hand it to you. You will be an occupier, an invader, but never the king.”
“My lord Mhor, is it really necessary for me to remind you that I hold your children, your servants, and hundreds of your subjects here? I will have my way. Sooner or later, you will stand before Cuiraecen’s altar and you will speak the oaths that will make me the ruler of Mhoried.”
“After which, of course, you will slay me for my bloodline. I expected no less.”
Tuorel’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Actually, no. Our friend Bannier has requested that you be delivered into his hands, without a blade in your heart. Your bloodline would be quite a prize, but I decided it was a fair price.”
The Mhor considered his words. Tuorel was more ambitious than he had thought. The kingdom would be virtually worthless to him until he subdued the provinces that still held out for the House Mhoried. It was a surprising strategy, a move that declared his intent to fight for and keep his conquests in Mhoried. I expected him to kill me and then exact tribute and allegiance from Thendiere or whoever succeeds me, he thought, but I never believed that he would seek the throne for himself. Given that, the idea that Tuorel would simply allow Daeric himself to fall into Bannier’s hands was equally surprising. The baron need Daeric’s blood to strengthen himself enough to rule two kingdoms. “I’m surprised you haven’t run me through already, bargain or no bargain,” he said. “No one feels bound to keep his word to a traitor, after all.”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 10