The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  “Good evening, my lord Mhor,” Baesil said, raising his hand in salute. “As you can see, we’re on the march.”

  “Excellent,” Gaelin replied. “Think we’ll catch Lord Baehemon’s army off guard?”

  Baesil shrugged. “We won’t know until we get there, will we? I’ve got scouts combing the path before us. With luck, we’ll have early warning of any Ghoeran scouts or patrols.

  The next hour will tell.”

  The ride was strange; clouds hid a waning moon, so it was dark, and none of the Mhoriens showed any lights. Instead, the lead elements of each division were guided by scouts on foot, men of Ceried who knew the area well. Count Baesil had also ord e red extraordinary measures taken to quiet the march, and each man had muffled his horse’s hooves by swaddling them in soft cloth. No talking was permitted, and even loose pieces of armor were padded for silence. The night around Gaelin was filled with creaking and rustling, broken by the snort of a horse and a few muted clinks and jingles. For almost an hour, they crept along at a slow walk.

  Under the shadows of a dark, tangled wood, they drew up in ranks for the attack. The fires of Ghoere’s army could be seen a half-mile or so off, drawn up in the center of a broad, open field. “Not a bad place for a camp,” Baesil observed quietly.

  “Excellent visibility for hundreds of yards all around.

  But, on the other hand, this big field is perfect for mounted troops.”

  “Could they be waiting for us?”

  “I’ve heard two reports of Ghoeran patrols. One our scouts were able to silence, man for man. The other, we’re not sure of.” He lowered his visor. “Cover your face, lad. No sense waiting for a stray arrow in your eye.”

  Gaelin shut his own visor. There was a whisper along the ranks of the horsemen, and slowly the line began to move forward.

  Gaelin, Baesil, and their guards followed about twenty yards behind. Twisting in his saddle, Gaelin could see a hundred light cavalry waiting by the woods, guarding their escape route and standing by as a reserve. “When do we charge?” he asked Baesil.

  “I’ll walk right up to the camp if they don’t give an alarm,” the general replied. He held his men to a walk. They were three hundred yards from the Ghoeran camp when they heard the first few panicked shouts of alarm from the firelit tents ahead. “That’s our signal,” Baesil said. “Captain, sound the charge!”

  From beside Gaelin, a bugler let loose with a deafening blast that split the night. With a great roar, the knights and light horse spurred their mounts, thundering ahead toward the camp. The command company picked up their pace to a gentle canter, staying well back of the front lines. Bright yellow light flared as horsemen uncovered lanterns and pitch pots, turning the night into a chaos of shadows and glinting steel. Ahead of them, Gaelin saw men inside the camp racing to man the earthworks surrounding the tents. He swore in disgust – the Ghoerans hadn’t been surprised. “They’re wait- ing for us!” Gaelin yelled. “Call it off!”

  “Too late now,” Baesil replied. The charging line slowed and swirled for a long moment, held up by the shallow ditch and palisade of stakes surrounding the camp. Ghoeran crossbowmen and pikemen were still streaming up to man the dike, and at point-blank range they wreaked havoc in the leading ranks of the Mhorien charge. Horses reared and plunged, screaming, impaling themselves on the stakes or the pikes of the Ghoeran defenders. Gaelin found himself pressed in on all sides as the attack faltered, and in a nightmarish chaos of shadow and fire he fought to keep Blackbrand beneath him.

  Suddenly, the ranks around him opened up, and he spurred ahead into the fight. Although the Ghoerans had held them for a moment, the weight of their attack had punched a hole in the enemy line, and with shouts of fierce glee the Mhoriens dashed into the camp. Within moments, dozens of Ghoeran tents were fired, and Mhoriens were galloping through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path.

  The command group rode down one lane between the tents. Gaelin realized he’d completely lost his bearings in the smoke and noise of the fight. Beside him, Baesil growled in disgust. “What a fiasco!” he shouted over the screaming and rising roar of flames. “If we’d been any slower, they would have cut us to pieces on the dike!”

  “Well, we’re here now. Let’s fire his supplies!” Gaelin replied.

  Baesil nodded. “All right, but we stay away from any big fights.” They rode around the perimeter of the camp. Their guards were soon caught up in a series of small melees with bands of Ghoerans, and arrows and crossbow bolts began to pelt through the company at random as unseen archers fired at the Mhoriens.

  They passed a corral where several hundred horses reared and whinnied in panic, and Baesil sent several men to tear down the fence and drive the animals away from the camp.

  They continued to circle the camp and came to a great swirling melee of fire and fighting men around the Ghoeran supply train. Gaelin guessed that there were a hundred or more wagons drawn up in neat lines, surrounded by the tents and rough lean-tos of several companies of infantrymen and guards. These men were waiting for the Mhorien attack, and as far as Gaelin could see in the smoke and the darkness, men rushed to meet the attacking horsemen or to fight the fires that had already been set. The first division had been assigned to head for the wagons, and they were embroiled in a bitter fight to finish their job of destroying Baehemon’s supplies.

  “They’re waking up now,” said Bull.

  “You’re right, soldier,” Baesil replied. “Time for us to leave.”

  Gaelin looked around. It was a scene of hellish confusion, and acrid smoke burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. The din was deafening: weapons beat on shields and armor, men screamed orders from all sides, and flames roared hungrily.

  Suddenly, from behind them, furious war cries filled the air, and an onslaught of half-dressed footsoldiers armed with whatever weapons they could find overtook their guards.

  Gaelin turned his horse to face the men who poured through the screen of guards. “Baesil, watch your back!” he cried.

  A few feet in front of him, Bull leaned away from his saddle and smashed one spearman to the ground with a monstrous blow from his long-handled maul, but a fellow swinging a battle- axe over his head dodged aside and came for Gaelin with an angry ro a r. Gaelin twisted in the saddle to catch the first blow on his shield, and then brought his sword across his body in a heavy chop that split the Ghoeran’s skull. He wheeled to look for another foe, but suddenly a heavy flail struck a crushing blow across his shoulder blades, smashing him out of the saddle.

  The world spun and went dark as Gaelin crashed heavily to the ground, breathless and stunned.

  Gasping for air, he rolled over to his hands and knees in the mud and looked up just in time to see the Ghoeran raising his weapon for the killing blow. Gaelin lunged out of the way.

  His Mhoried blood might help him to recover from crippling injuries, but a well-aimed blow could kill him before his ability had time to repair the damage. “Blackbrand!” he yelled.

  Like many war-horses, Blackbrand was trained to protect a dismounted rider. The great stallion reared and lashed out with his hooves, driving back a pair of Ghoerans who were advancing on the fallen prince. Gaelin used the momentary break to regain his feet, snatching his sword out of the mud.

  The flail-wielder shortened his swing and leveled a deadly blow at Gaelin’s head, but Gaelin ducked and stabbed him through the chest. Spots still danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t draw a breath, but he groped his way to Blackbrand’s side and heaved himself back into the saddle.

  Around him, Baesil’s knights and guards were driving the foot soldiers away. “Gaelin! Are you all right?” Baesil’s voice was hollow behind the iron mask of his helmet.

  Gaelin managed a nod. He was still out of breath, his chest aching as he tried to find his wind. Baesil dispatched another man with a skillful blow to the throat. “Enough of this! Sound the retreat!”

  The horn sounded again, and in the distance Gaelin heard the fa
int response of the other divisions as they replied.

  Count Baesil stood in his stirrups and yelled, “Forward! Let’s go! Leave these bastards behind!” The command company disengaged, and almost before Gaelin knew it, they were galloping away into the darkness surrounding the camp. Arrows fell among them, clattering from armor or plunging to stick in the ground. Baesil led them in a curving circle away from the burning camp.

  A few hundred yards off, well out of bowshot, Baesil held up his hand and brought the group to a halt. Gaelin looked around the company. He could see they were missing a number of men, maybe a third of their number, and many more were injured as well. Behind them, roaring fires raced through the camp, and he could still hear the occasional clash of arms as Ghoerans fought Ghoerans in the confusion. “I’d say we bloodied their nose,” Gaelin said to Baesil.

  “Aye, we did, but we lost a lot of men we couldn’t afford to lose,” Baesil replied. He lifted his visor, and Gaelin was surprised to see a line of blood trickling down the side of the count’s face. “Don’t believe that we did anything more than make them mad. Maybe we killed a few and burned some wagons, but that’s still a formidable army behind us, and they’ll be after blood now.”

  “Let them follow us,” Gaelin said. “We’ll give it to them.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bannier caught up with the retreating army of Mhoried in the southern borderlands of Winoene. The gem in which the warrior’s soul resided, the princess Ilwyn, and Bannier’s own mindless body were safely hidden in his secret place of power, deep within the Shadow World. It was a mere step away from the world of sunlight, but no one save a wizard or a halfling could ever locate Bannier’s retreat. For two days he had ridden Madislav’s body mercilessly to catch up to the Mhorien army.

  It was the evening of the day after the raid, and the Mhoriens were strung out over ten miles of winding track as they climbed north into the highlands of the country. As he joined the main body of the march, Bannier glanced at the troops with a critical eye. They seemed exhausted, and many struggled along with wounds or battered gear. But there was a spring in their step, a rough and ready wit in their speech, that Bannier didn’t like. The Mhoriens were beaten, but they hadn’t been broken yet. He snorted in disgust – that was Tuorel’s problem, not his.

  He settled into an easy canter and rode alongside the army as it snaked up into the green, rocky hills. Now and then he was hailed by a passing soldier or knight familiar with Madislav, but to each he waved and called out, “I cannot be talking now!” as he cantered past. In a mile, he came upon a knot of knights and lords, the banners of Mhoried flying proudly from the standard-bearers. It was late in the evening, and the vanguard was already stopped for the night.

  He spied Gaelin sitting atop his horse beside a nobleman he recognized as Baesil Ceried, with a small number of guards watching over him. In fact, one of these watched him approach for a long moment before raising his visor for a better look, blinking in disbelief. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Mhor Gaelin! It’s Madislav!”

  Gaelin turned at Boeric’s call, breaking off in midsentence.

  “Madislav! Is that you? By Haelyn, how did you escape?

  Where have you been?”

  Bannier pasted a broad grin on his features and focused on Gaelin. The prince knew Madislav as well as anyone, and if he’d inherited any of his father’s talent for seeing through deceptions… the wizard would have to be careful to speak no lies. “Hah! Is good to see you, Gaelin! I could not believe you got away!”

  Gaelin swung down from the saddle, and Bannier did likewise.

  The prince hugged him, slapping his back. “How did you manage it, Madislav? I thought you’d been shot dead in the courtyard.”

  Bannier showed an exaggerated wince. “I thought so too, but this body is harder to kill than most. I just was looking dead.”

  Gaelin drew back, concern on his face. “I’m sorry, I should have been careful of your wounds. Do you need someone to look after them?”

  “I have seen to them already. I will live.”

  “So they took you for dead? Did you just get up and walk away when no one was looking?”

  Bannier smiled broadly and clapped Gaelin on the shoulder.

  “How were you getting away, Gaelin?”

  The prince missed the reversal and quickly related the story of his escape with Erin, Boeric, and Niesa and their subsequent journey. “So, here we are,” he concluded. “I’ll be glad to have your counsel again, my friend.”

  Bannier bowed. “Is yours as long as you need it,” he answered.

  “Now, begging your pardon, where can I find something to eat?”

  Gaelin smiled. “Same old Madislav,” he laughed. “Boeric, have one of your men show Madislav to the mess tent. I’m sure they can find something for him.” He turned back to Bannier and grinned. “Get yourself something to eat, a little sleep if you need it, and come by later. I’ll want to hear all about your escape.”

  “You will be seeing me later,” Bannier promised. “We are having much to discuss, no?” He noticed Erin was staring at him, an odd look on her face. He looked away and rode off in search of the mess tent.

  *****

  They climbed higher into the downs and hills of upper Winoene.

  Unlike the lowlands of Mhoried, these regions were mostly wild; villages and farms were few and far between.

  Often they found themselves flanked by rocky foothills whose sheer sides streamed water from patches of melting snow high on their barren crowns. It was a desolate and unforgiving land, but Gaelin loved the wild beauty and solitude.

  Baesil led them into deep, trackless valleys hidden in the hills, places of heather and boulders where they encountered no one save a few shepherds with their flocks. Gaelin quickly understood why Baesil had run for the highlands – it was hard going for an army, and forage was even scarcer than it had been in the lowlands. They could outwait and outmaneuver any larger force that pursued them into the hills. In fact, Gaelin spotted a dozen or more good places to make stands or set ambushes for the armies that followed.

  Erin was moved by the beautiful scenery, as well. One morning, when the frost was thick on the grass and the red light of dawn shone from the stark peaks that fenced them in, she asked, “How much of Mhoried is like this, Gaelin?”

  “The highlands run a hundred miles or more, from the headwaters of the Stonebyrn to the springs of the Maesil,” he told her. “And from here it’s still fifty miles north to the Stonecrowns and Torien’s Watch. It’s the better part of a third of the kingdom, and most of it’s just like this.”

  “It’s spectacular,” she murmured, drawing a deep breath.

  “I’m glad I got a chance to see it, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “I could stay up here forever,” Gaelin agreed. He stretched and worked his knuckles into the small of his back. “Well, we’ll see more of the scenery over the next day or two.” He gave her a tired smile and saddled Blackbrand for the day’s ride.

  During a halt on the third day of the march, Gaelin and his usual riding companions – Erin, Huire, Madislav, and the Princess Seriene – climbed a short way from the track to eat a light meal of cheese and bread on a hillside. Gaelin’s back still hurt from the fall he’d taken during the raid, and he didn’t mind finding an excuse to rest between marches. Erin softly strummed her lute as they ate. After a quarter-hour or so, Seriene reached over and touched Gaelin’s arm. “It seems that your lunch is about to be interrupted. There’s a messenger heading this way.”

  Gaelin groaned and stood up. “It never stops.” The rider, a young northland lad with a mud-splattered tunic, slid off his horse a few yards away and presented a wax-sealed parchment to Gaelin with a bow. Gaelin thanked him and moved away, examining the seal. “It’s from the Count Rieve of Torien’s Watch,” he announced. He opened it, read the letter, and reread it to make sure he understood.

  “What is it?” asked Erin.

>   “Torien says there’s trouble with Cariele. The queen doesn’t want to take sides by supporting my claim or allowing food and arms to cross her borders,” Gaelin said. He crumpled the letter and threw it to the ground in disgust. “We need her complicity, if not her active cooperation. Damn!” He sighed. “Well, Baesil’s going to tell me that we’ve got to have those supplies. I’ll have to go on up to Cariele and call on Queen Aerelie, see if I can talk some reason into her.”

  “You don’t have time for that,” Erin said. “If you leave Mhoried for any reason, nobles will desert your banner.

  They’ll think you’re running out on them.”

  “I don’t see that I have a choice.”

  “I’m your herald, Gaelin. It’s my job to represent you when you can’t be there yourself. I’ll go.” Erin stood and tucked her riding pants back into her boots.

  Gaelin grimaced. “You’re right. Convince Aerelie to open her borders, and offer her whatever you think is reasonable. I trust your judgment.”

  Erin smiled. “Three days there, three days back, and I’ll figure on a week or so to convince the queen to see reason. I should be back in two weeks. Can you manage without me?”

  “I’ll have to. Take a detachment of guards with you, at least ten men. I don’t want you to run into trouble in the Stonecrowns.”

  The bard gracefully swung herself onto her horse and bowed low from the saddle. “It shall be as you wish, my lord Mhor.” Then she turned and rode off, heading down toward the road. Gaelin watched her leave, unease shadowing his heart.

  On the fourth day of their march, one day after Erin’s departure for Cariele, they came into a small region of gentler hills and sparse forestland, the southern fringes of the mighty Aelvinnwode. Here they found a ruined keep by a cold lake.

  “The old Caer Winoene,” Baesil told them. “Sacked and burned four hundred years ago, by goblin tribes out of the Five Peaks, during the chaos that surrounded the fall of the Roele line in Anuire. House Winoene met its end here, and much of the land was never restored. Lord Hastaes holds the county now, but it’s only a shadow of what it once was.” He took a deep breath. “It’s home for a time. My scouts report that Baehemon’s a good ten days behind us, and probably more like three weeks if he waits for reinforcements to come after us up here.”