“But you’re not dying as one,” Gaelin replied. Cuille smiled weakly in response, and then his eyes fixed on the dark skies overhead. Gaelin closed them, and stood, ignoring the tears that streaked his face. Regardless of what he might have done, Cuille had been his friend.
Ilwyn stumbled past him and knelt beside Cuille, cradling his head in her arms. She sagged back, numb with grief. “Ah, Cuille,” she said. She closed her eyes and sobbed. Quietly, Gaelin raised her up and led her away. Already, the folk of Sirilmeet were tending to their dead and wounded, but in the midst of their grief there was also a fierce pride in their victory.
The villagers had finally struck back.
That night, Gaelin and his party stayed beneath Master Piere’s roof again. After the fight, no one slept well. Gaelin found himself staring at the darkness for hours. How many men was he leading into death? How many men like Piere and Bull would never return from the campaign? He knew it was pointless to brood over these questions, but he couldn’t help it. Eventually he drifted off into a restless slumber.
In the gray hour before dawn, he rose and dressed himself, and awakened the others.
“Where will you go next, m’lord Mhor?” asked Piere. “Will you try to raise the southlands, too? From what I hear, they’re ready to fight.”
“There’s no time,” Gaelin said. “As it is, the muster of Sirilmeet will be hard-pressed to reach Lake Winoene in time. If I rode another half-day, the men I reached wouldn’t be able to make it to the fight.”
“Four days to Lake Winoene? Bah! We’ll be there in three,”
Piere boasted. But he didn’t argue the point that anyone further away would not be able to join the levy of Mhoried. “Will you return to Caer Winoene, then?”
Gaelin nodded. “I’ve one more stop first, and then I’ll make all speed for the muster. I need to make contact with the Diemans.”
“We have about thirty lads with horses good enough to keep up with you,” Piere offered. “Let me send them on ahead with you, just in case. Five guardsmen just aren’t enough to stand between you and danger, should you meet a Ghoeran patrol.”
Gaelin thought of declining – larger parties always moved slower than small ones, and he was pressed for time – but acquiesced.
“I’ll be proud to ride with the muster of Sirilmeet, Master Piere. Gather them quickly, though; we need to be on our way.” Within the hour, Gaelin’s small party grew into a band of forty. Most of the militiamen were unarmored, but a number had served as cavalrymen in Mhoried’s army, and they knew how to use the lance and bow from horseback.
While they waited for the Sirilmeeters to gather their gear, Gaelin was surprised by the arrival of Castellan Trebelaen from Castle Dhalsiel. The stocky knight approached and dropped to one knee, removing his helm. “My lord Mhor, I wish to report that the Ghoerans were driven out of Castle Dhalsiel last night. We heard how Count Dhalsiel died, and… we feel the least we can do is offer our swords in your service.”
“Your family is the closest to the Dhalsiels, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked. “You have a claim on the county.”
“My lord, I press no claim now. I don’t feel that I have the right.” Trebelaen looked up, his face working with emotion.
“Dhalsiel’s played a shameful part in this fight so far. I’d like to help make up for that.”
Gaelin looked over at Piere. “Master Piere? Do the folk of Sirilmeet have anything to say about this?”
Piere shrugged. “Mhor Gaelin, Count Dhalsiel’s men were under the orders of their lord, and they offered us no harm.
We just didn’t care for the company Count Cuille kept.”
“Very well, Sir Trebelaen. We need all the help we can get.”
Trebelaen stood and replaced his helmet. “Thank you, my lord Mhor. There are a few more of us who feel the same way.
They wanted me to find out your mind first.”
“How many?” Gaelin asked.
“About six hundred men-at-arms, my lord.” Trebelaen smiled. “With your permission, we’ll set out for Caer Winoene by noon.”
Gaelin blinked. “That’s almost all your strength.”
“Mhoried needs us, my lord. I couldn’t see holding back.”
“Thank you, Lord Trebelaen. We’ll see you at Lake Winoene in a couple of days, then.” Gaelin reached forward and clasped the knight’s arm. “It’s good to have you on our side.”
As the sun rose into the cloud-racked sky, Gaelin and his reinforced company set out again, riding into the wet, gray morning. Gaelin directed Bull to lead them to the abbey, and by midmorning they sighted the Haelynite stronghold across the downs and hills. The stone walls of the monastery bristled beneath the clouds like a knotted gray fist clenched in the hilltop, angry and warlike. Under the grim, glowering walls, Erin brought her horse alongside Gaelin and said, “You intend to ask the prefect for her aid again? She already refused to help you once.”
“My circumstances were different then. Mhoried’s army was smashed, and I was a fugitive accompanied by only a handful of retainers. Things might not be much better, but maybe Iviena’s had a change of heart in the last month and a half.” Gaelin glanced at her and smiled. “Besides, the abbey is along the way. What could it hurt?”
Riding to the front of the fortified retreat, they entered through the open gates and rode into the great courtyard in the center of the monastery. An unsettled feeling flitted through Gaelin’s stomach as he recalled the ambush at Shieldhaven, but he had nothing to fear: the Haelynites welcomed his arrival with military honors. A gaunt, hatchetfaced captain wearing the garb of a brother superior over his armor personally escorted Gaelin and his immediate entourage into the temple.
High Prefect Iviena met him in the same audience chamber he had visited before, but instead of the humble habit she had worn on the previous occasion, she was dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor. He removed his helm, and strode forward to kneel before Iviena, kissing her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “You were expecting me, Prefect?”
Iviena smiled, motioning him to rise. “The countryside is afire with rumors of war, Gaelin. From here to the Stonebyrn the militias are gathering. We may be cloistered to contemplate Haelyn’s glory, but we aren’t that sheltered.”
“You know why I’m here, then?”
“I suspect that you wish to rally us to your cause, Mhor Gaelin.”
“If I remember right, you have nearly a thousand men under arms here, including three hundred Knights Templar,” Gaelin said. He met Iviena’s eyes, letting her see a glimpse of the white fire that fueled him. “We have a hard fight ahead of us, and we’ll meet Tuorel’s army with or without your soldiers.
But they’d be a great help, Iviena. They might even tip the battle in our favor.”
The old priestess turned away, facing the small altar of Haelyn that stood at the end of hall. Closing her eyes, she breathed a silent prayer. Gaelin waited quietly. “The issue is still in doubt,” she said at last. “But you are the Mhor now, not a pretender or fugitive, and you deserve our support. The soldiers of the faith shall join you against Ghoere.”
Gaelin risked a quick glance at Erin; she offered a fiery grin, her face flushed. For the first time, he felt a sense of something greater than himself coming together. The events he had set in motion were gathering momentum, drawing him along with a newfound sense of gravity and history. His place was at the front of this rising tide, in the center of the storm, and they’d know in a few days whether he had done everything he needed to do.
He looked back at Iviena and clasped her hand in a warrior’s handshake. “We’ve half a day’s light left,” he said with a bare smile. “How soon can your men march?”
Thick, black smoke wreathed the Mhorien lines, turning the battle into a swirling hell of fire, blood, and torment. Surrounded by the black-armored knights of his Iron Guard, Baron Tuorel rode forward with a grim smile of satisfaction hidden beneath his wolf-shaped visor. He delighted in the clash of arms, the fierce struggle for survival and victory, the ultimate test of who was right and who was wrong. He and his knights had spent the morning in a pitched fight on the Mhorien ramparts, driving Ceried’s men back in a bitter struggle.