The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  Count Baesil shot a hard look at her. “Without even fighting for the first line?”

  Seriene swallowed. “There’s powerful magic at work here, and I have no idea what it might be,” she said. “Give the signal for retreat. I beg you!”

  Baesil looked at Gaelin. “Should I, Mhor Gaelin?”

  Gaelin’s stomach was knotted up. “All right. We’ll give Bannier the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t just bluff us out of our position. Fall back.”

  The bannerman raised the signal. Along the rampart, the Mhorien soldiers stepped back, hesitating. A few began to slide down the near side of the rampart, or milled about trying to keep in ranks.

  In that moment, a black mist began to rise from the ground, surrounding the earthworks. Dark corruption welled silently out of the ground, a spring of blackness, as if the ground itself was burning and giving off smoke of purest midnight.

  The stuff swelled up from the earth, sending tendrils of inky fog racing ahead to catch and envelop the re t reating Mhoriens.

  Men shouted and screamed in fright. Many broke and ran rather than face the darkness, while others held their ground on the ramparts while the sea of ebon mists lapped around their feet and then rose to overwhelm them.

  “By Haelyn! What sorcery is this?” said Gaelin.

  Seriene’s eyes were wide with terror. “It cannot be! No one is strong enough to do that!”

  “Seriene! What is it? What’s he doing?”

  The princess only shook her head in horror. “We must flee.

  Now! Or we are lost, too!”

  Gaelin looked out over the battlefield, where his men were vanishing into the dark mists. He heard their screams and shouts, and a dim clangor that might have been the clash of arms heard from an impossible distance. Here and there, a few men were outdistancing the encroaching mist, fleeing the scene. Even as he watched, the center of his line was overwhelmed; a knot of sixty or seventy men stood on top of the rampart, back to back, while the mist surged and seethed over them. With the earthworks inundated in darkness, the mist started rolling uphill toward the rise where Gaelin and his guards waited. It moved with malign intelligence and speed. “I can’t leave them here!” Gaelin cried. “I can’t abandon them!”

  Baesil Ceried leaned over and caught Blackbrand’s reins, turning the horse toward the rear. “That’s fine, my lord Mhor, but I don’t know how we can fight that. Let’s go!”

  Gaelin threw one more glance over his shoulder. The mist was receding from the earthworks now, having flowed over and past the ditch and dike. There was no one there. The mantles and stakes still stood where they had been, unharmed, and here and there he saw a discarded helmet or a dropped bow – but of the men themselves, there was no sign. Eight hundred men had just vanished without a trace. And the thing that had taken them was now only a few yards short of Gaelin’s position, and gathering itself to lunge up the hill after him.

  Gaelin spurred Blackbrand hard and fled for his life. Behind him, the Ghoerans cheered raggedly and ran forward in pursuit of the few Mhoriens that remained, although they were careful not to follow the darkness too closely. Within another two hundred yards, the mist suddenly halted, roiling in place for a long moment, and then it sank down into the ground as quickly as it had risen. But now the Ghoeran cavalry was sweeping forward, charging ahead to ride down the surviving Mhoriens. They’d just barely missed annihilation by Bannier’s spell, but Tuorel’s horsemen would quickly overtake them. Gaelin cursed viciously.

  Erin halted abruptly, wheeling to one side as the rest of the royal party streamed by. She took in the scene with one quick glance, and then raised her hands, singing under her breath.

  In a moment, the coiling blackness returned, surging back up from the ground in the path of the Ghoerans who pursued them. In panic, Tuorel’s troops bolted back the way they had come.

  Gaelin stopped in amazement. “Erin! How did you – ”

  “It’s an illusion!” she replied. “I guessed that the Ghoerans would want nothing to do with that mist, after watching what it did to us.” She permitted herself a brief smile. “Let’s get out of here while it lasts.”

  Beside her, Seriene nodded in appreciation. “Well done, Erin. I underestimated your talents for the Art.”

  Erin glared at the princess, but did not reply. As they cantered away from the gap, Gaelin asked, “What was that, Seriene?

  What did Bannier do?”

  The princess shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it, Gaelin, but he summoned the Shadow World here. He must have a potent source of magic, in order to wield spells of that magnitude. And a dark source, at that.”

  “Source? What do you mean?” Gaelin knew they should be making the best distance they could while Erin’s spell lasted, but this seemed important. He slowed down and stayed near the two women, as they picked their way back down the reverse slope of the pass.

  Seriene replied, “A source is a place strong in magic, a place where a blooded wizard – or someone of elven descent, for that matter, since they’re magical in their own right – can tap into the power of the land itself to cast spells. Most spells, such as the shields you’ve seen me cast, draw their power from the caster’s skill and strength. But that’s nothing compared to the power of mebhaighl, the land’s magic.” She looked at him oddly. “Why do you ask?”

  Gaelin shook his head. “When you mentioned the idea of a source, a thought occurred to me: Why would Bannier want to meet me at Caer Duirga? It’s in the middle of nowhere.

  And I have this sense that something’s there. I can feel Mhoried, ever since I stood before the Red Oak, and now that I think about Caer Duirga, it feels like a sore that won’t heal.”

  He tried to find the words to continue, but gave up. “I guess that’s not much help.”

  Seriene reached out and took his hand. “On the contrary, Gaelin, if Caer Duirga hides the source of Bannier’s magic, I may be able to strike at him in a way he doesn’t expect. Can you take us there now?”

  “We’re going there in a day or two anyway.”

  “The sooner, the better,” Seriene said. “What I’ve got in mind could take several days.”

  “Even if there’s nothing at Caer Duirga, we could use the time to prepare for your meeting with Bannier,” Erin pointed out. “Maybe we can set a trap for him.”

  Gaelin considered it. “All right. We’d have to leave for Caer Duirga soon, in any event. We can cut across the highlands and make for it now.” He rode ahead to where Count Baesil was, surrounded by a few surviving officers, and matched Blackbrand’s pace with the general’s. Baesil’s face was an ashen mask of horror, but somehow he managed to keep control of himself and marshal the escaping Mhoriens.

  With curt orders, he hammered at the fleeing men and directed their retreat. The survivors – mostly men of the reserve – were quickly forming into patchwork companies and abandoning the camp as it lay.

  “Go back to Caer Winoene, and organize a retreat,” he told Baesil.

  “Retreat? Where?” Baesil waved a hand at the northlands.

  “If we have to flee into Torien or Marloer, we won’t be able to supply the army. We can’t give up Caer Winoene.”

  “Well, what do you advise?”

  “If I have some hope of relief, I’ll try to wait out a siege.”

  Gaelin turned Blackbrand, circling Baesil as he looked for signs of the Ghoeran pursuit. Over the last month, he’d spoken with a hundred or more different lords, knights, and captains, but he had no idea how many would answer his call when the time came. “All right, then. Pull back to Caer Winoene and get ready to stand a siege. Somehow I’ll find a way to relieve you, hopefully within a couple of weeks.”

  Baesil nodded. “I’ll hold the ruins at least that long. Where are you going?”

  “I’m heading for Caer Duirga. Do me a favor, and try to maintain the illusion that I’m still with your army for a few days.” He grasped Baesil’s hand. “Haelyn light your path, Baesil.
”

  “And yours, Gaelin. We’ll hold as long as we can.”

  Two miles farther on, Gaelin briefly rounded up ten of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, as well as Seriene and Erin.

  While Baesil led the remnants of the army back to Caer Winoene, Gaelin and his band split off from the main group and headed east, into the wilds and highlands, as darkness began to fall.

  *****

  Two days after the victory at Marnevale, the Ghoeran army arrived at Caer Winoene and set siege to the ancient castle. Instead of retreating again, as Bannier expected, the Mhoriens stood their ground. Almost three thousand men garrisoned the ruins, a number far greater than the old castle could comfortably support, so the Mhoriens had expanded the fortifications to cover a good portion of their camp. Earthworks and newly repaired walls of stone surrounded the gray old towers in ring after ring of ditch and palisade.

  Bannier was no judge of such things, but it looked as though Gaelin’s army would be difficult to dig out of the ruins. Worse yet, the Mhoriens still held a part of the lakeshore and could pass supplies or small parties out of the siege lines by boat; Lake Winoene was almost ten miles long, which meant Lord Baehemon’s men would have to patrol the shores vigilantly to keep the castle truly isolated.

  After touring the camp and inspecting the preparations, Bannier returned to Tuorel’s headquarters. The baron stood aside from the chaos outside the tent and surveyed the Mhorien defenses while discussing the strategy of the siege with Lord Baehemon. The squat general fell silent as Bannier approached, his impassive face displaying nothing more than a flicker of contempt. “Master Bannier,” he said gruffly, tilting his head by way of a greeting.

  Tuorel turned and greeted him as well. “Good evening, Bannier. What’s on your mind?”

  “How goes the siege?”

  Tuorel snorted at Bannier’s ignorance of military affairs.

  “It’s hardly started. Ask me again in a month.”

  “A month?” Bannier affected mild astonishment. “It will take that long to overwhelm the Mhoriens?”

  “At least that long,” snapped Baehemon, allowing his temper to show. “Ceried has created formidable defenses for his army.”

  “Defenses?” Bannier chuckled. “Those ditches and banks of earth can keep your vaunted Iron Guard at bay?”

  Baehemon’s face darkened. “Go back to your books and spells, wizard. This is man’s work.”

  “It sounds like a tedious process,” Bannier observed. “You wish to be done with this sooner than that?”

  Tuorel glanced at him. “Of course. What do you have in mind? More of your sorcery?”

  The wizard smiled coldly. “Not the same enchantment I used at Marnevale, but a powerful one nonetheless. I can open a hundred-yard gap in the earthworks.”

  Tuorel exchanged a look with Baehemon. “All right, Bannier.

  When can you do it?”

  “I’ll need a day or two to prepare. This is potent sorcery, and I’ve exhausted my reserves over these past months.”

  The baron returned his gaze to the Mhorien defenses, now cloaked by the falling twilight. Orange torches burned on the battlements. He looked back to the wizard. “I’m not certain I want to meet your price, Bannier. Your charity alarms me.”

  “There is no price, baron. The sooner you break through the Mhorien lines, the sooner I will see Gaelin Mhoried dead.” The wizard paused, and then added, “There is one condition for my service. There is a chance that Gaelin may come to us or seek to cross your lines under a flag of truce. If he does, summon me immediately.”

  “Very well. It shall be as you say.”

  Baehemon scowled. “My lord, do not trust him!”

  “Baehemon, I’ve never trusted him.” He met Bannier’s gaze without a trace of fear. “We have an understanding?”

  Bannier returned his predatory smile. “I believe we do.”

  Satisfied, he turned and strode away, leaning on his ironshod staff. Again, he’d been less than honest with Tuorel. The spell he had in mind would require a few hours’ preparation and no more. Before he set to work on the enchantment, he intended to visit Caer Duirga and make sure everything was ready. If he knew Gaelin, the prince would show up at the appointed time. The only question was how Bannier could deal with any guards or escorts who followed Gaelin to his doom.

  *****

  Gaelin, Erin, and Seriene rode until moonrise, accompanied by their guards. They watched for signs of pursuit, but after six hours of picking their way through the darkness, they were certain the Ghoeran skirmishers and scouts had missed their trail. Gaelin called a halt only after one unfortunate trooper fell asleep in his saddle and tumbled off his horse in exhaustion.

  It drizzled until dawn, and they were caught in the open with only bedrolls and cold supplies. They did not dare light a fire, and no one was equipped for more than a day in the field – an oversight on Gaelin’s part, since he had expected to be back at Caer Winoene already. Still, they were so tired that most of them found a way to sleep for a few hours despite the rain and the mud.

  By morning, the rain diminished into an early morning highland fog that lay thick and cold in the green glens between the hills. They were well into the wilds of Mhoried’s foothills, with knife-edged ridges rising on all sides of them, flanked in fields of heather and draped with white-running streams. They struck across the most desolate territory of Mhoried, a trackless maze of stark hills and high, misty vales.

  Over the course of the morning’s ride they passed only a handful of herdsmen’s huts and the occasional turf lodge of a hunter or trapper.

  Gaelin found the wildness and the chill, bracing air to be restful. Like a starving man, he drank in the scent and the feel of the rich heather and grass, a green so vivid it seemed more alive than he was. The mist that crowned the peaks around him was a cool touch on his face, and the water that gathered on his cloak and ran down his face tasted sweeter than wine.

  He wondered if the others felt it, too, or if his bond to the land gave him a sense they did not share.

  When they finally halted at midday to rest the horses and chew on stale rations, Gaelin rode ahead a few hundred yards to be alone with his thoughts. He sat down on a grassy hillside, looking out over a broad gray valley, and listened to the trickle of water splashing downhill in a dozen tiny torrents.

  After a time, he became aware of someone’s approach.

  “Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.

  “Gaelin? May I join you?”

  He gestured at a small boulder beside him, and the minstrel sat down, looking out over the fields and the hills. They sat in silence for a time, taking in the view. Erin’s eyes were bright and open, and her breath streamed away from her.

  “This is a beautiful spot,” she murmured. “It makes me feel… alive, somehow.”

  Gaelin nodded. “I’ve always felt that way about the highlands.”

  Erin shifted to look at him. “Do you want me here?”

  Sighing, Gaelin stood and shook out his rain-wet hair.

  “This is a dangerous business, Erin. You’ve seen how powerful Bannier is. Chances are, I’m leading you all into disaster.”

  He raised his eyes to hers, vulnerable and guileless. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “That didn’t stop you from bringing Seriene along.”

  “She’s skilled in the magical arts. If anyone can figure out a way to defeat Bannier, she can.” Gaelin picked up a rock and idly tossed it downhill, watching it clatter away. The drizzle was growing heavier, becoming a steady rainfall. “Besides, if nothing else works and I have to deliver myself to Bannier, Seriene’s status may protect her; Bannier may not want to earn Diemed’s hate by harming Vandiel’s daughter.

  At the least, he’d consider holding her for ransom. The rest of you don’t have that kind of protection. Bannier may do you harm just to spite me. I couldn’t bear that, Erin.”

  Erin stood abruptly and walked away, turning her back to him. “This
may be my last chance to see you, Gaelin. I know it’s dangerous, but please don’t send me away.”

  He moved over to where she stood, hugging her arms to her body, and gently turned her to face him, resting his hands on her shoulders. The rain streamed down her face and plastered her hair to her skin. It made her look pale, fragile, as if all the barriers she created between herself and the outside world had been washed away. Beneath Erin’s graceful and confident facade, Gaelin caught a glimpse of the frightened girl. His heart ached at her haunted eyes, and without thinking he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. “Swear to me you’ll be careful. That no matter what happens to me, you’ll still be safe.”

  She leaned against his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. “Gaelin, I don’t know if I can,” she said.

  “It’s the only way you can stay near me. I’ll do what I have to do. Just promise me there’s a reason for me to hope, that somewhere you’re alive and well.”

  Erin didn’t reply. They held each other for a long moment, as water ran from their cloaks and ran in icy trickles beneath their clothes, and then it was time to head back and ride on.

  Before they left, Gaelin kissed her again, and Erin responded with fire, locking her arms around his broad shoulders for a brief moment that seemed to last forever.

  They continued for about fifteen miles more that day, p ressing on until sundown. That night, they camped in the w reckage of an old freehold in the shadow of a steep-sided hill crowned with bare rock. The place had been deserted for decades, but the signs of a bloody fight or raid could still be found – doors kicked off their hinges, stone blackened with soot from a fire, a half-dozen stone cairns marked with goblin runes in the field behind the house. It seemed an ill omen, but no one complained about sleeping with cover over their heads.

  After an unappealing dinner of hardtack and a bit of cold rabbit stew, Gaelin and his companions sought their bedrolls.

  The day’s hard travel had tired everyone – no one was inclined to sit up around the small fire and make small talk.