They rode beneath the castle’s rain-streaked battlements.
Gaelin led the way under the castle’s gatehouse, followed by the rest of his entourage. Adetachment of men-at-arms in the colors of House Ceried manned the gate. The sergeant in charge held up his hand to stop Gaelin as he rode into the courtyard. “Halt, sir,” he said in a rough voice. “Your name?”
Erin spoke up from beside Gaelin. “The Mhor Gaelin and his company, sergeant.”
The sergeant hastily saluted. “I’ll send word to the count immediately, my lord.” He sent a young page running off toward the keep at once and called for the stablehands to help with their horses. While Gaelin and the others dismounted, stretching and kneading the kinks in their legs and backs, a crowd of off-duty soldiers and servants gathered, pointing and whispering.
A few moments later, the doors of the keep burst open across the courtyard, and Count Baesil appeared, striding purposefully across the bailey in his black armor. A dozen knights, officers, and lords flanked him, talking excitedly among themselves. Gaelin stepped out from behind Blackbrand and walked forward to greet the count. “Count Ceried.
It’s good to see you.”
“I thought you dead or captured, Gaelin,” Baesil rasped. “I certainly didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep.” He looked past Gaelin at the curious spectators and barked, “Go on, get on with your business!” Reluctantly, the commoners and off-duty soldiers broke up and went their own way.
Gaelin looked around, frowning. “You didn’t have to do that on my account. Friendly faces have been hard to find lately.”
“Come with me, Gaelin. We’ve much to discuss.” Without waiting for Gaelin’s reply, Baesil turned on his heel and strode off through the gatehouse, dismissing his guards with a curt wave of his hand. Gaelin stared after him, glanced at Erin, and then hurried to catch up. The bard followed a respectful distance behind him. The count didn’t speak as they walked out of the castle’s gate and started toward the camp, skirting the moat.
“Well?” said Gaelin as he drew abreast of the count. Baesil’s long, shanky stride was difficult for Gaelin to match, and must have left shorter men in the dust. “How do things stand?”
“You have no idea how much harder you just made things for me,” Baesil snapped.
“What? What do you mean?”
“With you dead or captured, there was nothing for me to do but make the best terms I could with Tuorel. He’s beat us in the field, he cut out Mhoried’s heart when he took Shieldhaven and killed the Mhor, and he’s got half the southern lords bending their knees to him. Now I have to decide what I’m going to do with you.” The old lord didn’t even glance at Gaelin as he finished his declaration with a bitter stream of foul oaths.
Gaelin caught Baesil by the arm. “Stand still and talk to me, damn it! I didn’t spend the last ten days fighting my way through ambushes and skulking through the countryside to let you decide what you’re going to do with me!”
Erin touched Gaelin’s arm softly. “Gaelin, it may be wise to hold your temper in check.”
Baesil’s eyes bored holes in Gaelin, as he studied the prince. “I have no time to coddle a hotheaded young rake who has the gall to call himself Mhor. Your father was the Mhor, Gaelin. You will be treated as an honored guest until I decide where you should be, but you will not stray out of my sight until I figure out what to do.” Baesil jerked his arm from Gaelin’s grasp and turned his back on him.
Gaelin clenched his fists. “I swore the oaths before the Red Oak yesterday morning, Baesil. I’m the Mhor, whether you like it or not. You hold these lands from me, and that is my army camped in those fields. I’ll ride down there and tell them to storm your castle if that’s what it takes to get your attention.”
“I’m their commander. How many do you think would follow you?”
“I’m Daeric’s son, and I swore the oaths. I think most of them would.”
“You’d pick a fight with a Mhorien lord, while Ghoere’s army stands only three days’ march away?”
Gaelin returned his gaze evenly. “My father always spoke highly of you, count. He said that you were one of the three or four lords he’d trust with his life. I’m beginning to wonder what he saw in you.”
Baesil held Gaelin’s eye a moment longer. Then, slowly, his face split into a fierce grin, and his eyes flashed. “Good,” he said. “You’ve iron in you, boy. More than I remember. That’s good.”
Gaelin was still shaking with anger. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right. Let’s try this again. How do matters stand?”
“In a minute. First I want to hear how you found your way home from Endier.”
“Very well.” Gaelin related the entire tale, starting with the appearance of Lord Baehemon in Shieldhaven. Baesil constantly interrupted with curt questions, until Gaelin found himself growing furious.
“Well, it sounds as if you’re the Mhor.” Baesil inclined his head. “I’m afraid that Mhoried’s been gutted like a fish, my lord.”
“Go on.”
Baesil started walking toward the camp again, this time at a slower pace. “Ghoere sent damn near their whole strength against us, starting with Riumache. We’d always thought Tuorel would attack there, but we figured the town could hold out for a couple of weeks at least, time enough to muster the lords and relieve Lady Tenarien.”
“But the Maesil froze,” Erin said.
“I see you’ve heard the story. Tuorel took the town in an afternoon, and he was off and running.” Baesil swore under his breath. “The man knows how to run an army, I’ll grant him that. He caught us with our forces dispersed and drove straight up through Tenarien into Cwlldon on the Old Stoneway. Within two days of the fall of Riumache, I took the army of Bevaldruor south to meet him, trying to gather up as many of the lords’ musters as I could. But the northlords were busy with a horde of goblins that crossed over from Markazor at the same time that Tuorel invaded, and half the southlords decided to sit on their collective behind and watch Ghoere cut their rightful lord to pieces.”
“So you had to face Tuorel with half the army you should have had,” Gaelin said.
Baesil’s vitriolic scorn failed him, and he turned away.
“I met him at Cwlldon Field. That was a mistake,” he said. “I never should have engaged Baehemon there. I knew we didn’t have enough men, but I thought I might be able to out-maneuver him or fox him somehow. All I did was get a lot of good men killed and barely put a dent in Baehemon’s army.
And on top of that, I learned of Shieldhaven’s fall the next day. That was a week ago.”
“It’s in the past,” Gaelin said. “What’s left of the army?”
“I’ve about two thousand men,” Baesil replied. “Two hundred Knights Guardian, another two hundred knights and heavy cavalry – those are the retinues of the southlords, mostly – about three hundred light horse, four hundre d archers, three hundred pike, and a couple hundred infantry and skirmishers. We’ve also started to raise the levy of Byrnnor, so there’re five or six hundred farmers with pitchforks and bailing hooks scattered among the real troops.”
“How many more could we raise?”
Baesil glanced at him. “Oh, if we turned out the countryside, probably two or three thousand in the next week. But they wouldn’t be worth a damn. I’d be sending them to slaughter if I threw them into a battle without some equipment and a little training.”
“What do you know of Ghoere’s forces?” Erin asked.
Baesil looked at Gaelin and then the bard. Gaelin said, “Go ahead, Baesil. Erin’s been with us from the start in this thing, and she’s a White Hall bard, like Tiery. She’s had plenty of chances to betray me already.”
The general cleared his throat and nodded. “Well, after Cwlldon Field, Ghoere’s army dispersed to run down the scattered units we’ve got all over the place. They’ve kept a portion of their fighting strength together, maybe four thousand heavy troops, but the rest of their forces are engaged in securing the countryside.” He pointed across the rain-soaked fields toward the south. “The main body camped about twenty-five miles that way last night. They’re making for us with the best speed they can manage, but it’s getting a little harder for them.”