Erin lowered her voice. “It was a bad situation, Gaelin. You made the best of it.”

“And what a mess that was. I could have had Toere scout the castle, or stopped to ask around in Bevaldruor.” He bowed his head. “If I had surrendered, there’d be fifteen men alive this morning who aren’t right now. Including two of my truest friends.” His hands were shaking too badly to draw the bandages around her leg.

“Those deaths are on Tuorel’s hands, not yours. How were you to know that the castle had been taken?”

“I knew my father was dead. That should have put me on my guard.” He sighed and looked away. “It never occurred to me that the castle itself could have been taken.”

Erin massaged the dressing on her calf, wincing. “The question before you now is, what next?”

Gaelin fell back against the mud-chinked wall and sighed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have no idea. Have you considered our situation? Mhoried’s army is defeated, wrecked at Cwlldon Field. Shieldhaven has fallen, and with it many of the knights and noblemen who could have mustered a new army to face Ghoere. The Mhor is dead, the first prince is dead, my sister Liesele is dead, and Ilwyn is still a prisoner of Tuorel.

Bannier’s turned his sorcery against us.” He picked up a handful of straw and dropped it again with a sigh. “There’s nothing left. How can I even start to put it back together? I’m a fugitive in my own country.”

Erin regarded him in silence. The first rays of the sun were shining on her hair through the open door. “So what are you going to do?”

“What can I do? Mhoried’s beaten. I’ll be lucky if I escape the country with my head still on my shoulders.”

“You’re going to flee? Why?”

“Haven’t you been listening? Ghoere’s won. Tuorel crushed the army, he captured the capital, half of the Mhorien lords have abandoned the fight or been overrun, and the Mhor’s dead – ”

Erin cut him off. “No, he’s not.” She glared into his face with a fiery intensity. “I’m talking to him.”

“Who in their right mind would call me the Mhor now?”

“If you’re not the Mhor, then who is?” Erin countered.

Gaelin stopped, a scowl twisting his face as he searched for a response. “Well?” Erin continued. “Two or three of the Mhorien lords have forsworn their oaths, but what of the others?

Some will recognize you, if you claim the throne.”

“If I claim the throne, Tuorel will hunt me down and kill me,” Gaelin said. “He’ll destroy anyone who supports me.”

“If you don’t claim the throne, Tuorel wins without opposition.

Your family dies unavenged, your lands become part of Ghoere.” She reached out and grasped his good hand.

“Could you live with yourself if you let that happen?”

At the barn door, Boeric stood suddenly and drew back into the darkness. “Someone’s coming, my lord,” he said quietly.

Gaelin twisted to look. “Ghoerans?”

Boeric shook his head with a smile. “Not unless Tuorel’s sent farmers to invade us.” He quickly roused Niesa, who started pulling her mail shirt back over her tunic.

Gaelin pushed himself to his feet and moved up beside Boeric, peering through a missing board in the wall. A dozen men were walking across the fields toward the barn, led by a stout old fellow in a leather jerkin studded with small bronze plates. They carried an assortment of weapons; about half were armed with powerful longbows, a couple carried old woodaxes or boarspears, and one ham-fisted giant carried a twenty-pound mattock over his shoulder. The motley band halted about thirty yards from the barn, and the leader stepped forward.

“All right, then, you in the barn! Come on out and show yourselves!”

Gaelin looked at Boeric and shrugged. He stayed back in the shadows. “Who are you?” he called.

“I’m Piere of Sirilmeet. These are my fields, and that’s my barn you slept in. Now show yourself, or I’ll shoot you for a goblin.” The archers among the band nocked arrows and held them half-drawn, searching the shadows for targets.

“The town militia,” Boeric observed. “What do we do?”

“I can’t believe that they’d hand us over to the Ghoerans,”

Gaelin said. He nodded at the others, and stepped out into the morning sunlight. “My thanks for your hospitality, Master Piere, and I apologize for not asking your leave first,”

Gaelin said. “We were pursued by Ghoere’s men.”

Piere nodded. “I knew that someone’d borrowed my barn this morning, so I rounded up some lads to see who was sleeping under my roof.” The farmer squinted and peered at Gaelin’s surcoat, examining the device. “Begging your pardon, Sir Knight, but I can’t make out your heraldry. You’ve got the emblem of the Guardians, I can see that much.”

“I’m Gaelin Mhoried, son of the Mhor Daeric.”

Some of the townsmen and farmers stood gaping, while Piere awkwardly went to one knee. The others followed suit.

Piere looked up at Gaelin, and asked, “My lord, is it true that the Mhor’s dead, and Prince Thendiere too? And that Shieldhaven’s held by the Ghoerans?”

Gaelin nodded, meeting Piere’s gaze evenly. “I’m afraid it’s all true, Master Piere. How did you hear of it?”

“Word’s been around the countryside, my lord. Ghoere’s soldiers hold the roads leading into Bevaldruor, but I guess they couldn’t keep the rumors from leaving.” The old farmer shook his head. “Even seeing you here, my lord, I can’t believe it.”

Gaelin recalled the Mhorien servants he had seen in Shieldhaven.

I don’t expect he brought many from his own castle, he thought. Even if the Mhoriens weren’t allowed to leave Shieldhaven, they’d have family and friends in Bevaldruor-town who would hear what happened. And every road in Mhoried leads to Bevaldruor. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “By now, the news of the Mhor’s death must be all over the countryside,” he said, musing aloud. “The only reason we missed it is because we were moving fast and riding through regions that had been abandoned to Ghoere’s armies.”

Piere glanced at his fellows, and said carefully, “So, my lord, you are the Mhor now?”

Gaelin looked across the fields, to where the sun was coming up. The morning was slightly overcast, and the clouds painted the sky in scarlet and gold. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “For now I am, Piere. You said that Sirilmeet was near?”

“Only a mile west, my lord.”

“Castle Dhalsiel’s a few miles north of the town,” Gaelin said to Erin. “We may be closer to help than we thought we were.” He turned back to Piere and asked, “Have Ghoere’s armies moved into Dhalsiel yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard, my lord.” Piere glanced at the men around him and added, “They haven’t done much about the Ghoerans, though. It seems that Tuorel’s scouts and raiders have free passage of Dhalsiel for now, even if the main armies haven’t come any farther than Shieldhaven.”

Gaelin scowled, looking away over the fields, now red and gold with the sunrise. The brittle husks of last year’s corn littered the field; in a week or two, it would be time for the year’s crops to go into the ground.

“Where will you go now, my lord Mhor?” Piere asked.

“Castle Dhalsiel,” Gaelin said. “We’ll see what we can learn from the count.” From the way the Sirilmeet men shifted and exchanged looks with each other, Gaelin suspected that they weren’t particularly fond of their lord or the stand he’d taken so far in the war. Erin gave him a cautious look as well, but she didn’t say anything.

“We’ll see you to the castle, my lord,” Piere said. “Don’t worry about any Ghoerans.”

“My thanks, Master Piere.” In a few minutes, they had the remnants of their gear gathered together. Gaelin insisted that Erin ride Blackbrand as they followed Piere and the militiamen.

The other horses were still exhausted, but the big stallion possessed a remarkable endurance. On either side, the Sirilmeeters escorted them like palace guards on parade, swinging their arms with their tools and rusty old weapons slung over their shoulders.