Seriene glanced at the prelate before answering. “My lord Mhor, we would have to see you make some effort to retake the lands you’ve lost. So far, you have not been able to stand up to Ghoere’s army. Show us at least the promise of success in a future campaign, and we will do what we can.”

“I suppose that’s the best we will get for now,” Gaelin said with a sigh. “Would you consider aid that didn’t directly involve your forces in the fight?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We can use arms, equipment, and supplies of all kinds,” Gaelin said. “If you want to see us become strong enough to stand up to Ghoere, deliver these things to us. Of course, we will pay for them when we can.”

Seriene’s eyes narrowed. “I feel confident that my father will be willing to help you in this fashion, but you must realize that there’s no easy way to reach you. It may be a while.”

“Then the sooner we start, the better,” Baesil replied.

Seriene stood and smoothed her gown. “I will prepare a dispatch for my father,” she said. “We are agreed that Diemed will wait until Mhoried is in a better position before committing troops to the war? And that we shall undertake to help you with arms and equipment as we can?”

Gaelin nodded. “I wouldn’t say we’re agreed on both points, but we will accept it.”

Seriene smiled a little more warmly. “It’s a fair measure of what my father thinks of Tuorel that I’m here talking to you at all,” she continued. “In fact, he has requested I remain here for a time to act as Diemed’s representative at the court of the Mhor in exile.” She dropped her gaze demurely.

“We will be delighted by your company,” Gaelin replied.

“As you see firsthand how things are going, you may be moved to increase your efforts to help us throw Tuorel back across the Maesil.”

Seriene bowed gracefully. “Then we shall withdraw for now.” She paused a moment before addressing Gaelin by his rightful title. “Mhor Gaelin, my time is at your disposal.” She raised her eyes to Gaelin’s with a direct, disarming expression and a slight smile on her perfect lips before turning away. Gaelin watched the Diemans leave, holding his thoughts until they were gone.

Later that same day, in the evening, Baesil reported that the footsoldiers and the remaining baggage train were on their way, and Baehemon was camped only four miles away. As the sun set, he took Gaelin up to the battlements and pointed out the twisting lines of smoke that marked the Ghoerans’ cooking-fires. “We’ll give them a couple of hours to get nice and comfortable, and then we’ll hit them,” the general said.

“I’ll ride with you on the raid,” Gaelin said. His stomach was twisted and tight with nervousness, but he offered Baesil a smile. “I want the men to know I won’t send them someplace I wouldn’t send myself.”

The general scowled. “Damn it, Gaelin, this isn’t some kind of game! There’s every chance Baehemon might have caught wind of our plans and we’ll be riding into an ambush! Or even if he hasn’t, some Ghoeran might pop up when you’re looking elsewhere, and then where will we be? You’re the last hope we have of getting the throne back, lad. Don’t take it into your head to get yourself killed in a raid that won’t matter one way or the other!”

“I’ll be careful and keep out of the thick of things,” Gaelin promised. “Sorry, Baesil, but my mind’s made up.”

The general snorted. “Bah! I should have known you’d be thinking of this.” He turned and poked Gaelin in the chest with one finger. “You’d better not be doing this to impress that Dieman princess who showed up today!”

Gaelin returned to his borrowed chambers and managed two hours of sleep in the early evening. As the hour of the raid app roached, he rose and began to arm himself. Boeric appeared as he struggled with the last awkward pieces. The guardsman had been promoted to sergeant and would carry Gaelin’s standard in the upcoming fight. “Are you ready, my lord?”

“Almost. Here, give me a hand.” Flanked by his guards, he strode into the courtyard and found Blackbrand had already been dressed for battle in a skirt of chain mail and stiff, metalstudded leather. He mounted smoothly, took up the reins, and rode into the night with his guards arrayed around him.

They, too, were dressed in their heaviest armor, with lances stepped by their stirrups and swords hanging in easy reach by the saddlehorns. He noticed Bull among his personal guards; two days before, the beefy farmer had decided to enlist in Gaelin’s cause.

Outside, they joined Count Baesil’s command group, a knot of fifty or so guards, officers, and messengers, along with standard-bearers and musicians. All around the field, knights and cavalrymen sat in even ranks. There were three divisions, each marshalled together under a standard. Even as Gaelin rode up, the first division was moving away into the darkness, riding slowly with no lights showing.

“Good evening, my lord Mhor,” Baesil said, raising his hand in salute. “As you can see, we’re on the march.”

“Excellent,” Gaelin replied. “Think we’ll catch Lord Baehemon’s army off guard?”

Baesil shrugged. “We won’t know until we get there, will we? I’ve got scouts combing the path before us. With luck, we’ll have early warning of any Ghoeran scouts or patrols.

The next hour will tell.”

The ride was strange; clouds hid a waning moon, so it was dark, and none of the Mhoriens showed any lights. Instead, the lead elements of each division were guided by scouts on foot, men of Ceried who knew the area well. Count Baesil had also ord e red extraordinary measures taken to quiet the march, and each man had muffled his horse’s hooves by swaddling them in soft cloth. No talking was permitted, and even loose pieces of armor were padded for silence. The night around Gaelin was filled with creaking and rustling, broken by the snort of a horse and a few muted clinks and jingles. For almost an hour, they crept along at a slow walk.

Under the shadows of a dark, tangled wood, they drew up in ranks for the attack. The fires of Ghoere’s army could be seen a half-mile or so off, drawn up in the center of a broad, open field. “Not a bad place for a camp,” Baesil observed quietly.

“Excellent visibility for hundreds of yards all around.

But, on the other hand, this big field is perfect for mounted troops.”

“Could they be waiting for us?”

“I’ve heard two reports of Ghoeran patrols. One our scouts were able to silence, man for man. The other, we’re not sure of.” He lowered his visor. “Cover your face, lad. No sense waiting for a stray arrow in your eye.”

Gaelin shut his own visor. There was a whisper along the ranks of the horsemen, and slowly the line began to move forward.

Gaelin, Baesil, and their guards followed about twenty yards behind. Twisting in his saddle, Gaelin could see a hundred light cavalry waiting by the woods, guarding their escape route and standing by as a reserve. “When do we charge?” he asked Baesil.

“I’ll walk right up to the camp if they don’t give an alarm,” the general replied. He held his men to a walk. They were three hundred yards from the Ghoeran camp when they heard the first few panicked shouts of alarm from the firelit tents ahead. “That’s our signal,” Baesil said. “Captain, sound the charge!”

From beside Gaelin, a bugler let loose with a deafening blast that split the night. With a great roar, the knights and light horse spurred their mounts, thundering ahead toward the camp. The command company picked up their pace to a gentle canter, staying well back of the front lines. Bright yellow light flared as horsemen uncovered lanterns and pitch pots, turning the night into a chaos of shadows and glinting steel. Ahead of them, Gaelin saw men inside the camp racing to man the earthworks surrounding the tents. He swore in disgust – the Ghoerans hadn’t been surprised. “They’re wait- ing for us!” Gaelin yelled. “Call it off!”