“Enough of this,” he muttered. “I’m tired of Bannier’s attentions.
Princess Seriene, Erin, would you come with me?
Boeric, you as well. Send word to Count Baesil that I need to see him at once. And Huire, please join us as soon as you can.” He turned and strode away, heading for the room he had appropriated as his private audience chamber, while the others followed.
Gaelin stared out the window, deep in thought, waiting for the rest to arrive. Behind him, he noticed a pronounced silence between Erin and Seriene, while Boeric simply waited.
In a quarter-hour, Huire and Baesil both appeared. Running his hand through his hair, Gaelin turned and faced his friends and advisors. “How is the herdsman?”
“He should be fine, my lord. He feels terrible about carrying that thing into your presence.” The priest steepled his hands before him. “He’s had a terrible fright, but the brave lad won’t admit it. I hope he’ll be all right.” He tapped his temple.
“Do what you can for him.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Gaelin glanced over the others, and took a seat at the head of the table. “You are all aware of my predicament,” he began.
“Bannier holds my sister hostage and threatens to kill her if I don’t surrender. If only my life were at stake, I would honor his bargain and deliver myself to his hands. But it would be wrong of me to leave Mhoried without a Mhor at a time like this, just as wrong as it would be to do nothing and allow Ilwyn to die at Bannier’s hands.”
“You’ve made a decision?” asked Seriene.
“Yes,” Gaelin replied. “I will go to Caer Duirga. But I won’t go alone, because I don’t trust Bannier. If it lies within my power, I mean to free Ilwyn.”
“What if you can’t free her?” said Baesil.
“Then I will surrender myself to Bannier, and hope that he’s more trustworthy than I shall have proved myself to be.”
Gaelin looked around the table. “If that happens, there must be another Mhor. That will be Count Baesil Ceried.”
Baesil protested. “Gaelin, I can’t! There’s no way all the lords will follow me! When the Mhoried line dies, so does Mhoried!”
Gaelin looked into his face. “You’re the finest noble in Mhoried. If it comes to it, Baesil, I know you’ll do your best.
Who knows, maybe enough of the nobles will follow you to keep Mhoried in the fight. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He smiled with grim humor. “I’ve something to live for myself, and I don’t want to die unless I have to.”
Without looking up, Erin said, “When will you leave, Gaelin?”
“Count Baesil’s scouts report that we’ll be fighting in the Marnevale pass tomorrow. I mean to be there, to see how that goes. It’s two days’ ride to Caer Duirga, so I expect I’ll leave either the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. As to what happens next… I don’t know. But I’m going to get Ilwyn out of Bannier’s reach, or die trying.”
Chapter Fourteen
Early in the morning, Gaelin and his advisors joined Baesil Ceried as he left for Marnevale. The Mhorien general had already dispatched his troops; this last group consisted of his officers and the Knights Guardian. They set forth in a drizzle that lasted all morning, soaking them to the skin, but at least the day was fairly warm.
Baesil’s plan was simple. At Marnevale, two steep ridges were separated by rocky walls only three hundred yards apart. The Ghoerans could ignore the gap and skirt the ridges, but this would delay them by at least a day, and the gaps at the far end of the ridges were just as defensible as Marnevale. Baesil’s men had raised a long earthwork across the gap, which they would hold as long as they could. A second line had been built behind the first, so the troops holding the front would have the opportunity to fall back while a rear guard held the Ghoerans. Baehemon’s great advantage – his armored cavalry and knights – would be neutralized by the fortifications, and he would have to take the line by hand-tohand assault in the teeth of four hundred archers and six hundred infantry.
“Should we have committed more men to the defense of the gap?” Gaelin asked Baesil as they rode along. “After all, we have an excellent position here.”
The old count shrugged. “Baehemon might decline the battle and try to flank us. We’d be finished if he managed to engage us here while his cavalry swept around to surround us, which is why I wanted this force to be small and mobile.” He clapped Gaelin on the shoulder. “This isn’t the deciding point, not yet. I’m just going to see if I can blood Baehemon again.”
An hour after noon, they arrived at the gap, riding in a long column of mud-splattered armor and sagging banners.
The rain had continued all day, and the single road that led through the gap was a river of mud. Baesil led the guards into the open stretch between the two walls, and dismounted to climb the earthworks and confer with the captain who commanded the troops on the scene. Gaelin followed, Erin and Seriene a few paces behind him.
“There’s the Ghoeran host, m’lords,” reported the captain.
From their vantage atop the earthen dike – now soft and slippery from the rain – they could see rank upon rank of red and blue soldiery, seven or eight hundred yards downhill, gathering beneath a forest of banners. “As you expected, Count, Baehemon’s dismounted his knights to lead the attack, but he’s kept a number of cavalry mounted behind his lines.”
Baesil nodded. “He’s hoping to run us to ground after we abandon the line. Confident, isn’t he?”
“I’m surprised he’s coming up to meet us,” Gaelin said, as they watched the Ghoerans prepare for battle. “How far did they march today?”
“About five miles, Mhor Gaelin,” the captain replied.
“Baehemon didn’t want to give us the opportunity to strike at his camp again,” Baesil said. He looked up and down the line, surveying the defenses. Gaelin followed him, taking in the preparations. The men who had fortified the position had first dug a wide ditch about six feet deep, heaping the dirt on the far side so an enemy would first scramble down into the bottom of the ditch before climbing back up a slope that was a dozen feet in height. Along the top of the ramparts, hundreds of mantles – huge, stationary wooden shields designed to shelter archers – had been placed to provide cover for the Mhoriens. Baesil grunted in satisfaction. “They’ll remember this place a long time.”
Gaelin looked up at the steep hillsides on either side of them. “Any chance of the Ghoerans scaling the bluffs?”
Baesil grinned. “We have parties of skirmishers holding the hilltops. They’ll have to work to go around us.”
“Mhor Gaelin!” Erin was calling him, from a few yards away. She hadn’t spoken a word to him during their entire ride from Caer Winoene, but now pointed toward one of the banners in the center of the enemy army. “That’s Tuorel’s standard.”
Gaelin squinted at the banner she had indicated. As usual, her half-elven sight was better than his, but he was just barely able to make out the wolf’s head on red and blue. “He’s finally taken the field. I wonder if he’s going to lead the assault.”
“Tuorel’s Iron Guards are as tough as they come,” Baesil grunted. While they watched, drums began to rattle in the Ghoeran ranks, and the enemy started forward. “It seems we got here just in time,” Baesil said. “All right, everyone except the soldiers off the ramparts.”
Although he considered standing his ground, Gaelin decided not to. In the first place, it would give Baesil and Boeric fits, and secondly, risking his own life in this action wasn’t a good idea, considering what would become of Mhoried and Ilwyn if he fell. He could use his personal guard as a reserve, and throw them into the fight if the wall was breached. And he hadn’t forgotten how things had turned out the last time he’d taken the field, in the cavalry raid on Baehemon’s camp.