He turned to face her. “And how should you know? My heart, my mind, my body, they’re all the same. I haven’t become anything I wasn’t a day ago, Erin. And even if I’ve inherited my father’s throne, no one came along last night to tell me how to rule. Haelyn didn’t appear from the skies while I was sleeping to give me the courage of a legendary hero or the wisdom of one of the ancient kings. I don’t know anything more than I did before this happened.” He twisted his arm out of her grasp.
Erin’s eyes flashed. “If you feel that way, I suggest you learn, and fast. You’re the Mhor, and these people need you.”
She kicked her mare into a trot and rode away.
In another mile, they came to the crossroads of Pikesend. In the village green, at the meeting of the Pike and the Stoneway, they found a battered group of Mhorien cavalry. There were more than one hundred men on the green, many wounded, and it only took a glance to tell they’d recently fought and lost. The set of their shoulders and their haunted eyes were signs enough. Gaelin absorbed their injuries, the ragged look of the men and the bloodstained surcoats, and did not allow himself to look away.
Sergeant Toere led the party through the scattered squadron to an open space near the village’s covered well. A muddied standard was thrust into the ground at a slight angle, marking the location of the commander. A captain with a bandaged torso watched them ride up, his eyes searching the group for another officer. When he spied Gaelin’s armor and coat of arms, he saluted. “Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said.
“You’re a long way from the army.”
Gaelin returned his salute. “What unit is this, Captain?”
“Lord Caered’s cavalry, under Count Baesil. You are?”
“I’m Prince Gaelin.” He ignored the captain’s startled look.
“We’ve just returned to Mhoried. Can you tell me where Ghoere’s army is now? Or Count Baesil?”
“Of course, my lord.” The captain stood and pointed south. “The main body of Ghoere’s army camped about seven miles that way last night, though I expect they’re moving by now. Count Baesil’s withdrawing north.” He looked back the way Gaelin had come, but farther east. “I’d guess he’s maybe twelve miles off in that direction.” The captain dropped his arm, and seemed to sag a little before meeting Gaelin’s eyes. “The war’s not going well, my lord. Baesil tried to stand against Ghoere at Cwlldon Field, yesterday morning.
It was a hard fight, and we lost a lot of men. It’s a miracle Baesil saved any of us from that disaster.”
Gaelin felt his heart lurch. He swung himself out of the saddle and dropped to the ground, taking Blackbrand’s reins in his hand. “And the Mhor, and Prince Thendiere?”
The captain blinked. “They weren’t there, Prince Gaelin.
Count Baesil brought Shieldhaven’s muster to Cwlldon, but the Mhor’s party never arrived. We guessed they’d been held up somewhere.”
Gaelin found this inexplicable. Bannier must have struck down his father and brother in Shieldhaven’s halls, but what about the loyal guards and knights all around them? Even if they had been killed, why had the army of Shieldhaven missed the march? More than ever, he needed to get back to the capital and learn for himself what had happened. For the moment, he set the issue aside. “What about Baesil? What’s his plan?”
“I wouldn’t know, my lord,” the captain replied. “He’s drawing back, though. The army’s been mauled, and he doesn’t stand a chance of engaging Ghoere’s host and winning.
He’s running for the highlands, to hole up and lick his wounds. Our orders were to screen the retreat.”
Gaelin asked, “You said the losses were bad. How bad?”
The captain shook his head. “Baesil led six thousand men onto the field, including the levies of Tenarien and Cwlldon.
I don’t think half that number escaped.” He glanced at his men, and lowered his voice. “There were lords who didn’t show up for the battle, my lord. Maesilar, Balteruine, and Dhalsiel didn’t answer the call to arms.”
“Dhalsiel, too?” Gaelin closed his eyes. If the army of Mhoried had been beaten that badly, it would be nearly impossible to hold the river provinces against Ghoere’s attack -
Tenarien and Cwlldon were lost for sure, and probably Byrnnor as well.
Madislav spoke up. “What happened to you?” he said, sweeping a thick-muscled arm to indicate the squadron.
“We met up with a squadron of Ghoeran marauders last night. They’re all over the province, riding down stragglers from the battle, encircling the wagons and footsoldiers in the rear.” The captain grinned fiercely. “Cwlldon Field might have been a disaster, but there’s a hundred less Ghoerans to boast of it. We cut’em to pieces, my lord. I don’t believe they thought we’d have any fight left.”
“Good work,” said Gaelin, raising his head. These men deserved whatever praise he could give them; they had a long, hard fight ahead of them. “We’re heading for Shieldhaven to find out what’s keeping them out of the fight. Send a messenger to Count Baesil tonight, telling him that I’ve returned.
I’ll try to join him in a couple of days, or send word if I can’t.”
“I’ll send a man right now, if you like.”
“Very well. Good luck, Captain.” Gaelin swung himself back up into Blackbrand’s saddle, and waited for Sergeant Toere’s men to set out along the Pike. For the rest of the day, they followed the Cwlldon Pike east from the village, striking across the fields and forests of Mhoried’s heartland. They passed a great number of farms, bordered by ivy-grown walls of fieldstone and broad thickets or copses. They encountered no more Mhorien soldiers, or any scouts or marauders from Ghoere’s forces, but Gaelin was conscious of tension in the air. Too many fields and houses were empty. Even the small animals and birds seemed scarce.
By the day’s end, they were near the ancient belt of forest that ran through Mhoried’s heart; the hills in the middle distance were dark with woods. Madislav found a good campsite in a hollow a little way off the road, screened by a large copse. After tending to Blackbrand and eating a light supper, Gaelin excused himself and wandered away from the red glow of the campfire. Idly, he wondered how far away the light could be seen. It was a clear night, but the trees would screen the light well.
Just over the hollow’s lip, he encountered the sergeant’s pickets, two young soldiers who stood silently under the shadow of the trees, keeping watch. Gaelin greeted them quietly and moved on, letting his feet carry him where they would. He tried to think ahead to what he would do when he returned to Shieldhaven. Thendiere, Liesele, his father… Gaelin realized he had not even begun to confront their deaths. He’d lost few friends or relations in his lifetime, not since his mother had died, and suddenly, in the space of one week, his life seemed three-quarters emptied. He slumped to the ground, leaning against a weathered oak. “What am I going to do?” he said aloud.
The silence and darkness held no answers for him. He buried his head in his hands and tried to fight through the grief, feeling hot tears escaping from the corners of his eyes.
A long time later, Gaelin was roused from his thoughts by excited cries from the camp. He shook himself, rubbed his face, and rose to face the dim firelight. “What on earth?” he muttered. He made his way back toward the hollow, picking up speed. A man on horseback sat across the fire fro m Gaelin, speaking urgently with the soldiers nearby. Erin and Madislav crowded close, questioning the fellow. “I must be getting Gaelin,” the Vos said.
“No need, Madislav, I’m here.” Hearing his voice, the other soldiers edged back, clearing his path.
“Prince Gaelin,” said the man on horseback, bowing deeply. “I’m glad I found you.” He was dressed in a doublet of green and white, and wore a slender sword by his side. A courier from Shieldhaven! Gaelin realized. Of course. The Cwlldon Pike would be the fastest route between the capital and Baesil’s army. “I am Walden of Bevaldruor, my lord. I bear messages for Count Baesil, from Lord Anduine.”
“What news have
you of the Mhor?” Gaelin demanded.
The courier’s face fell. “My lord prince, I don’t know how to tell you, but… the Mhor is dead. Ghoeran assassins slew him in Shieldhaven, last night. These are the tidings I bring Count Baesil.”
“I know,” Gaelin replied. “How did it happen?”
Walden struggled to find words. “A traitor opened the postern gate to a band of cutthroats, in the dark of night. They overcame the Mhor’s guards before anyone realized they were in the castle.”
“What of Thendiere?”
“The First Prince requires your presence immediately, my lord,” the courier said. “He is holding Shieldhaven now.”
“Thendiere is not dead?” Erin’s brow furrowed, and she stole a glance at Gaelin.
“No, my lady.” Walden returned his attention to Gaelin.
“My lord prince, Count Baesil must hear my tidings. I am sorry for the Mhor’s death, but I must go.”
Stunned, Gaelin dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“Of course. You’ll find Baesil retreating to Byrnnor.” Without another word, the courier rode out of the camp and spurred his horse to a gallop once he reached the pike. The hoofbeats faded quickly in the heavy night air. Gaelin felt his way to a seat by the fire and sat down, staring into the flames.
“Could you have been mistaken, Gaelin?” Erin sat down beside him. “You were right about the Mhor, but maybe you misunderstood about Thendiere.”
“No, I know what I heard,” he answered. “And I felt the land’s power, too. You saw that. It wouldn’t have happened if Thendiere still lived.”
He stared into the fire. “We have to get to Shieldhaven to find out what happened.”
*****
The evening of the following day, Gaelin and his friends caught sight of the proud towers of Shieldhaven, the Mhor’s banners fluttering overhead in a stiff breeze. They’d found the road empty of traffic, meeting only a handful of peasants and woodsmen during their ride.
The day was brisk and slightly overcast, returning to the common weather of a Mhorien spring – cool and wet. Gaelin was looking forward to a night of sleeping in a real bed after a week of traveling, although he knew he’d be lucky to find the time to sleep at all for the next few days. The sun was setting as they emerged from the forests and started across the broad belt of farmland that surrounded the city of Bevaldruor and Shieldhaven itself. The valley seemed empty as well, although they could see a few people abroad.
At the foot of the causeway, Gaelin paused for a moment, gazing up at the fortress on its rocky hilltop. The road snaked back and forth under the commanding gaze of the battlements, climbing a hundred feet to the hilltop in four stonebuttressed switchbacks. Atop the gatehouse towers floated the twin standards of Mhoried and the Mhor.
“Thendiere must still live,” Ruide observed. “The Mhor’s banner is still flying.”
“I know it happened,” Gaelin said, almost speaking to himself. “There can’t be any doubt of it, can there?”
“Or they’ve been deceived,” Erin said.
Gaelin scowled. “There are hundreds of minor lords, menat- arms, courtiers, and attendants in and around the castle. I can’t conceive of a conspiracy so far-reaching that my father and brother could be killed and the assassins would be able to hide the truth.”
They started up the causeway, following Toere’s guards.
The brooding battlements possessed an air of watchfulness that Gaelin found threatening. He found himself looking at the fortifications and noticing just how formidable were the castle’s defenses. At the top of the causeway, they found a detachment of guards, dressed in the ceremonial arms of House Mhoried. They snapped to attention and saluted as Gaelin rode past. He followed Toere and his men into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, and started to dismount.
In the lengthening shadows, it took him a moment to spot the gibbet that stood at the far end of the court, beside the entrance to the great hall. A dozen bodies hung from the gallows, turning slowly from creaking nooses. He stopped dead, one foot still in the stirrup. “What happened here?” he said softly.
He recognized several of the men – the Brecht smith, Hans, was hanging at one end, with the groom Caede beside him. In the center, one frail body twisted far enough on its rope, and despite the coming darkness Gaelin knew it was Tiery.
A terrible suspicion was dawning in Gaelin’s heart, but it was Madislav who caught on first. “Vstaivyate l’yud!” he shouted. “It is a trap! The castle has been taken!”
From the innermost arch of the gatehouse, the mighty portcullis dropped. The capstans clattered in protest as the gate fell, striking the ground with a deafening crash. Three or four of Toere’s guards were trapped inside the gatehouse tunnel; a moment after the gate’s fall, their screams rang in the stone passageway as hidden archers cut them to pieces.
Gaelin whirled in panic; everywhere Ghoeran soldiers were appearing on the battlements, crossbows at the ready.
Shieldhaven’s battlements and towers may have been primarily intended for defense against a foe outside the walls, but as last resort the battlements also faced inward, providing overlapping fields of fire and channeling an enemy into a great stone coffin from which there was no escape.
Gaelin swung himself back into the saddle and cast about desperately, seeking some way out. With the portcullis in place behind them, a dash back out the front gate was out of the question – and even if it weren’t down, it would be suicide to run the gauntlet of arrow slits that lined the passage. Blackbrand reared and snorted, all too aware of Gaelin’s panic as he wheeled the horse, his eyes darting everywhere. Toere and his guards backed themselves into a tight circle around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide.
How did Shieldhaven fall? thought Gaelin. How could Tu o re l have brought this many men to take the castle?
“Lord Gaelin! What do we do?” called Toere, his voice hard and shrill. A few of his men had their own crossbows ready, pointing ten bows against the hundred or more that held the battlements against them.
“Why aren’t they shooting?” Erin muttered beside him.
“I don’t know,” he said, responding to both questions.
There was a sudden stir on the battlements of the keep itself, overlooking the great hall. Bannier strode out onto the wall, flanked by a distinctive figure in black armor, decorated with a wolf’s-head symbol.
Tuorel of Ghoere raised his arm, and the sharpshooters on the battlements placed their weapons to their shoulders. He lifted his visor and leaned forward, studying the tiny knot of Mhoriens in the center of the courtyard. “So, Prince Gaelin, you have returned home at last!” he called. “I am Baron Noered Tuorel, lord of Ghoere.” He gestured at the wizard standing beside him, and added, “I presume you already know Bannier. ”
“I see my courier found you,” the wizard observed. “Good.
It saves me the trouble of tracking you down.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you, traitor!” Gaelin called. A brilliant, white-hot fury was building in his heart. The sight of Tuorel and Bannier standing on the battlements of his home, beneath his father’s banner, and playing at courtesy suddenly inflamed Gaelin past all semblance of fear or reason. He met Tuorel’s eyes. “Tell your men to shoot, jackal! I’ll not plead for my life with you!”
Erin whispered, “Gaelin, I grant you we’re in trouble, but don’t give him ideas! Hear him out first. You never know what he might have to say.” She grasped his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t avenge your family if you’re dead.”
Tuorel smiled at Gaelin’s defiance, but his eyes remained cold as marble. “All right, Gaelin. I can see that you’re not without courage, and I respect that, so I’ll get to the point.
You hold the key to Mhoried; I want you to surrender your regency of Mhoried to me in a ceremony of investiture. If you agree, I will spare your companions and your guardsmen.
They will be free to leave Mhoried, unmolested.”
“And what of Prin
ce Gaelin?” Erin called. “After he gives you the land his family has ruled for a thousand years, what then?”
Tuorel shrugged. “He knows I can’t allow him to leave. He will be Bannier’s prisoner. But he can spare many lives by cooperating, I assure you. Including your own, woman.” Tuorel paused a moment. “Gaelin, your sister Ilwyn still lives. She will be spared with the others.”
Gaelin’s fury burned brighter and purer, like a song of rage that danced in his blood, infusing his whole body with iron strength. Distantly, he recognized this must be a blood-gift brought about by the inheritance of Mhoried’s power. But while his muscles seemed almost ready to burst with the brilliant fire, his mind transcended the anger that had sparked him. His thoughts ran with a clarity and depth he had never before experienced, a marvelous comprehension that worked so swiftly it seemed that time itself had slowed. And in this state, an idea came to him, an idea so desperate and mad that it must have been born of insanity. He spoke quietly, carefully pitching his voice to carry only a few feet: “Listen, everyone.
In a moment or two, on my signal, we’re all going to charge the great hall. Stay on your horses and follow me. We’ve got to get out of the courtyard.”
Madislav chuckled drily. “We’ll be killed for certain. Ah, well, I am not trusting Tuorel to let us go, anyway.”
Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, that’s insane.”
“I can’t give this bastard Mhoried. My life’s nothing against that.” He tapped Blackbrand’s flanks and walked the horse a step or two ahead, glaring up at Tuorel. “Tell me one thing, Tuorel: What happened to my father and brother? How did they die?” Toere and Madislav sidled close up beside him. He realized that they intended to use their own bodies to screen him from the hail of crossbow fire that would follow his first move.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 13