“Too late now,” Baesil replied. The charging line slowed and swirled for a long moment, held up by the shallow ditch and palisade of stakes surrounding the camp. Ghoeran crossbowmen and pikemen were still streaming up to man the dike, and at point-blank range they wreaked havoc in the leading ranks of the Mhorien charge. Horses reared and plunged, screaming, impaling themselves on the stakes or the pikes of the Ghoeran defenders. Gaelin found himself pressed in on all sides as the attack faltered, and in a nightmarish chaos of shadow and fire he fought to keep Blackbrand beneath him.

Suddenly, the ranks around him opened up, and he spurred ahead into the fight. Although the Ghoerans had held them for a moment, the weight of their attack had punched a hole in the enemy line, and with shouts of fierce glee the Mhoriens dashed into the camp. Within moments, dozens of Ghoeran tents were fired, and Mhoriens were galloping through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path.

The command group rode down one lane between the tents. Gaelin realized he’d completely lost his bearings in the smoke and noise of the fight. Beside him, Baesil growled in disgust. “What a fiasco!” he shouted over the screaming and rising roar of flames. “If we’d been any slower, they would have cut us to pieces on the dike!”

“Well, we’re here now. Let’s fire his supplies!” Gaelin replied.

Baesil nodded. “All right, but we stay away from any big fights.” They rode around the perimeter of the camp. Their guards were soon caught up in a series of small melees with bands of Ghoerans, and arrows and crossbow bolts began to pelt through the company at random as unseen archers fired at the Mhoriens.

They passed a corral where several hundred horses reared and whinnied in panic, and Baesil sent several men to tear down the fence and drive the animals away from the camp.

They continued to circle the camp and came to a great swirling melee of fire and fighting men around the Ghoeran supply train. Gaelin guessed that there were a hundred or more wagons drawn up in neat lines, surrounded by the tents and rough lean-tos of several companies of infantrymen and guards. These men were waiting for the Mhorien attack, and as far as Gaelin could see in the smoke and the darkness, men rushed to meet the attacking horsemen or to fight the fires that had already been set. The first division had been assigned to head for the wagons, and they were embroiled in a bitter fight to finish their job of destroying Baehemon’s supplies.

“They’re waking up now,” said Bull.

“You’re right, soldier,” Baesil replied. “Time for us to leave.”

Gaelin looked around. It was a scene of hellish confusion, and acrid smoke burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. The din was deafening: weapons beat on shields and armor, men screamed orders from all sides, and flames roared hungrily.

Suddenly, from behind them, furious war cries filled the air, and an onslaught of half-dressed footsoldiers armed with whatever weapons they could find overtook their guards.

Gaelin turned his horse to face the men who poured through the screen of guards. “Baesil, watch your back!” he cried.

A few feet in front of him, Bull leaned away from his saddle and smashed one spearman to the ground with a monstrous blow from his long-handled maul, but a fellow swinging a battle- axe over his head dodged aside and came for Gaelin with an angry ro a r. Gaelin twisted in the saddle to catch the first blow on his shield, and then brought his sword across his body in a heavy chop that split the Ghoeran’s skull. He wheeled to look for another foe, but suddenly a heavy flail struck a crushing blow across his shoulder blades, smashing him out of the saddle.

The world spun and went dark as Gaelin crashed heavily to the ground, breathless and stunned.

Gasping for air, he rolled over to his hands and knees in the mud and looked up just in time to see the Ghoeran raising his weapon for the killing blow. Gaelin lunged out of the way.

His Mhoried blood might help him to recover from crippling injuries, but a well-aimed blow could kill him before his ability had time to repair the damage. “Blackbrand!” he yelled.

Like many war-horses, Blackbrand was trained to protect a dismounted rider. The great stallion reared and lashed out with his hooves, driving back a pair of Ghoerans who were advancing on the fallen prince. Gaelin used the momentary break to regain his feet, snatching his sword out of the mud.

The flail-wielder shortened his swing and leveled a deadly blow at Gaelin’s head, but Gaelin ducked and stabbed him through the chest. Spots still danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t draw a breath, but he groped his way to Blackbrand’s side and heaved himself back into the saddle.

Around him, Baesil’s knights and guards were driving the foot soldiers away. “Gaelin! Are you all right?” Baesil’s voice was hollow behind the iron mask of his helmet.

Gaelin managed a nod. He was still out of breath, his chest aching as he tried to find his wind. Baesil dispatched another man with a skillful blow to the throat. “Enough of this! Sound the retreat!”

The horn sounded again, and in the distance Gaelin heard the faint response of the other divisions as they replied.

Count Baesil stood in his stirrups and yelled, “Forward! Let’s go! Leave these bastards behind!” The command company disengaged, and almost before Gaelin knew it, they were galloping away into the darkness surrounding the camp. Arrows fell among them, clattering from armor or plunging to stick in the ground. Baesil led them in a curving circle away from the burning camp.

A few hundred yards off, well out of bowshot, Baesil held up his hand and brought the group to a halt. Gaelin looked around the company. He could see they were missing a number of men, maybe a third of their number, and many more were injured as well. Behind them, roaring fires raced through the camp, and he could still hear the occasional clash of arms as Ghoerans fought Ghoerans in the confusion. “I’d say we bloodied their nose,” Gaelin said to Baesil.

“Aye, we did, but we lost a lot of men we couldn’t afford to lose,” Baesil replied. He lifted his visor, and Gaelin was surprised to see a line of blood trickling down the side of the count’s face. “Don’t believe that we did anything more than make them mad. Maybe we killed a few and burned some wagons, but that’s still a formidable army behind us, and they’ll be after blood now.”

“Let them follow us,” Gaelin said. “We’ll give it to them.”

Bannier caught up with the retreating army of Mhoried in the southern borderlands of Winoene. The gem in which the warrior’s soul resided, the princess Ilwyn, and Bannier’s own mindless body were safely hidden in his secret place of power, deep within the Shadow World. It was a mere step away from the world of sunlight, but no one save a wizard or a halfling could ever locate Bannier’s retreat. For two days he had ridden Madislav’s body mercilessly to catch up to the Mhorien army.

It was the evening of the day after the raid, and the Mhoriens were strung out over ten miles of winding track as they climbed north into the highlands of the country. As he joined the main body of the march, Bannier glanced at the troops with a critical eye. They seemed exhausted, and many struggled along with wounds or battered gear. But there was a spring in their step, a rough and ready wit in their speech, that Bannier didn’t like. The Mhoriens were beaten, but they hadn’t been broken yet. He snorted in disgust – that was Tuorel’s problem, not his.

He settled into an easy canter and rode alongside the army as it snaked up into the green, rocky hills. Now and then he was hailed by a passing soldier or knight familiar with Madislav, but to each he waved and called out, “I cannot be talking now!” as he cantered past. In a mile, he came upon a knot of knights and lords, the banners of Mhoried flying proudly from the standard-bearers. It was late in the evening, and the vanguard was already stopped for the night.