“Should we have committed more men to the defense of the gap?” Gaelin asked Baesil as they rode along. “After all, we have an excellent position here.”

The old count shrugged. “Baehemon might decline the battle and try to flank us. We’d be finished if he managed to engage us here while his cavalry swept around to surround us, which is why I wanted this force to be small and mobile.” He clapped Gaelin on the shoulder. “This isn’t the deciding point, not yet. I’m just going to see if I can blood Baehemon again.”

An hour after noon, they arrived at the gap, riding in a long column of mud-splattered armor and sagging banners.

The rain had continued all day, and the single road that led through the gap was a river of mud. Baesil led the guards into the open stretch between the two walls, and dismounted to climb the earthworks and confer with the captain who commanded the troops on the scene. Gaelin followed, Erin and Seriene a few paces behind him.

“There’s the Ghoeran host, m’lords,” reported the captain.

From their vantage atop the earthen dike – now soft and slippery from the rain – they could see rank upon rank of red and blue soldiery, seven or eight hundred yards downhill, gathering beneath a forest of banners. “As you expected, Count, Baehemon’s dismounted his knights to lead the attack, but he’s kept a number of cavalry mounted behind his lines.”

Baesil nodded. “He’s hoping to run us to ground after we abandon the line. Confident, isn’t he?”

“I’m surprised he’s coming up to meet us,” Gaelin said, as they watched the Ghoerans prepare for battle. “How far did they march today?”

“About five miles, Mhor Gaelin,” the captain replied.

“Baehemon didn’t want to give us the opportunity to strike at his camp again,” Baesil said. He looked up and down the line, surveying the defenses. Gaelin followed him, taking in the preparations. The men who had fortified the position had first dug a wide ditch about six feet deep, heaping the dirt on the far side so an enemy would first scramble down into the bottom of the ditch before climbing back up a slope that was a dozen feet in height. Along the top of the ramparts, hundreds of mantles – huge, stationary wooden shields designed to shelter archers – had been placed to provide cover for the Mhoriens. Baesil grunted in satisfaction. “They’ll remember this place a long time.”

Gaelin looked up at the steep hillsides on either side of them. “Any chance of the Ghoerans scaling the bluffs?”

Baesil grinned. “We have parties of skirmishers holding the hilltops. They’ll have to work to go around us.”

“Mhor Gaelin!” Erin was calling him, from a few yards away. She hadn’t spoken a word to him during their entire ride from Caer Winoene, but now pointed toward one of the banners in the center of the enemy army. “That’s Tuorel’s standard.”

Gaelin squinted at the banner she had indicated. As usual, her half-elven sight was better than his, but he was just barely able to make out the wolf’s head on red and blue. “He’s finally taken the field. I wonder if he’s going to lead the assault.”

“Tuorel’s Iron Guards are as tough as they come,” Baesil grunted. While they watched, drums began to rattle in the Ghoeran ranks, and the enemy started forward. “It seems we got here just in time,” Baesil said. “All right, everyone except the soldiers off the ramparts.”

Although he considered standing his ground, Gaelin decided not to. In the first place, it would give Baesil and Boeric fits, and secondly, risking his own life in this action wasn’t a good idea, considering what would become of Mhoried and Ilwyn if he fell. He could use his personal guard as a reserve, and throw them into the fight if the wall was breached. And he hadn’t forgotten how things had turned out the last time he’d taken the field, in the cavalry raid on Baehemon’s camp.

He resolved to leave the fighting to someone who knew what he was doing, and had his guardsmen fall back a short ways behind the rampart. They took up a position on the shoulder of one of Marnevale’s hills.

The Ghoeran ranks advanced, marching uphill in even rows. They were divided into three distinct columns; the left and right flanks were composed of solid Ghoeran infantry, carrying spears and shields, protected by chain and leather armor, while the center consisted of plate-armored knights carrying pikes, halberds, and battle-axes.

The knights were having a hard time of it, slogging uphill in the soft mud, and the other columns slowed their pace to keep close. Between the columns, companies of bowmen marched, but their bows were slung over their shoulders – Mhorien bows were more powerful than the lowland weapons of the Ghoerans, and with the disadvantage of height the Ghoeran archers didn’t even pretend to threaten the Mhorien position. They carried mattocks and short swords for the hand-to-hand assault.

The drums grew louder and deeper, reverberating from the rocky walls of the defile. The shrill sound of Ghoeran fifes drifted through the air, setting ghostly claws to Gaelin’s backbone.

From where he sat on Blackbrand, he could see rank after rank of the enemy army. Tuorel was pulling out all the stops, and he guessed that somewhere between six and eight thousand men were mustered under Tuorel’s banner.

“Ready the archers,” said Baesil. One officer raised a distinctive red flag, and a trumpeter sounded a blast. Along the rampart, the Mhorien archers nocked arrows on their bows.

“Archers, draw,” said Baesil. There was another trumpetcall, and the archers raised their bows, drawing the arrows to their ears. The Ghoerans were still a little far, but the leading troops were well within their range. Baesil started to speak the words to fire, but the Ghoerans halted, with a flourish of trumpets. The last rattling echoes of the drums rolled back from the hillsides, and then the battlefield fell silent. Baesil scowled. “What on earth? Archers, hold.”

Along the line, the bowmen relaxed their aim and lowered their weapons, craning their necks to see what was happening downfield. In the center of the enemy lines, a dark figure stalked forward, leaning on a great staff. The soldiers nearby shifted and muttered restlessly as he passed by.

“Bannier,” said Gaelin. “What is he up to now?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” said Baesil.

“Archers, skewer that wizard!”

A moment later, a ragged flight of arrows rose from the Mhorien ranks, lofting high into the air. Bannier continued forward, ignoring the missiles. Hundreds clattered to the ground all around him, but not a single one seemed to touch him, although a number of arrows flew astray and inflicted casualties in the Ghoeran ranks near him. The wizard paused and grounded his staff into the earth, freeing both hands to begin a flamboyant invocation of some kind. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Gaelin thought. “Seriene? What’s he doing?”

The princess was whispering and making passes with one hand, involved in some spell of her own. She found a moment to reply nonetheless. “I’m not certain, my lord Mhor. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. I’m taking steps to protect us here, just in case.” She continued her enchantment.

Bannier’s preparations continued for ten minutes or more.

From time to time, a Mhorien archer would loose a carefully aimed arrow at the wizard, but somehow none of these managed to strike Bannier. The Mhorien troops were growing nervous, muttering to each other and subconsciously slinking backward a step or two, fearful of what the wizard’s magic might do. Finally, he finished. With one glance at the Mhorien line, he picked up his staff and turned away, heading back down the hill.

“That was it?” said Erin in disbelief.

Seriene’s face was pale. Her horse picked up on her nervousness and pranced, pawing at the ground. “I don’t think that was it,” the princess said quietly. “We’d better fall back to the second line.”