The Mhorien turncoat gazed at Ilwyn, his face softening for a moment. “I did so for your safety. I’m sorry that Tuorel did not honor his bargain.”

“Then why do you remain in his camp?” Gaelin asked.

“What fealty do you owe him? It’s not too late to honor your allegiance to Mhoried, Cuille. To honor your allegiance to me.”

“Gaelin…” A glimpse of the Cuille Gaelin had once known appeared, though masked in dark cynicism. “I’m damned already. How could I undo what I’ve done? How could you ever trust me again?” He returned his gaze to Ilwyn and bowed in the saddle. “My lady, I am forever unworthy of you.”

The cavalry captain spat in disgust. “All right, Dhalsiel!

I’m not going to wait on you all night!”

Cuille glanced at the fellow in irritation. “I said I want to talk to him, and I will. Now be patient, good sir.” He tapped his horse’s flanks and walked forward.

Behind them, the Ghoeran cursed. “That’s it. Take them all!”

The cavalrymen spurred forward, slashing into the crowd of Sirilmeeters. In an instant, the scene was transformed into a mad, swirling melee of torchlight and flashing swords. Instead of fleeing, the villagers turned on the Ghoerans with the fero city of a wounded bear. Armed with pitchforks, clubs, and staves, they surged forward to meet the attack, dragging Ghoerans down from their mounts even as the cavalrymen slashed and hacked with abandon. Gaelin kicked Blackbrand forward, hauling his sword from its saddle sheath and making for the nearest attackers. His small retinue followed in his wake.

Across the square, Cuille drew his sword and lunged after the Ghoerans sweeping past him. “Stop! Stop, I beg you! This is unnecessary!” He raised his arm, trying to interpose himself between the cavalrymen and the villagers, but the Ghoeran behind him leaned forward and rammed his lance into the count’s back. Cuille gasped and spun out of the saddle, falling into the surging brawl of the square. A moment later, an archer on a nearby rooftop shot the captain through the throat. Gagging on blood, the Ghoeran officer fell forward and slid out of his saddle.

Gaelin met the first of the Ghoerans and engaged the fellow with a series of overhand cuts, but before he could strike a telling blow, the man was spitted on a pitchfork and dragged screaming from his saddle. As Gaelin looked for another man to engage, there was sudden brilliant light and a sharp crack! as Seriene unleashed a bolt of lightning that crashed through the main body of the Ghoeran column. In moments, the Ghoerans turned to flight, their front ranks drowned in a sea of angry villagers and their rear ranks raked by archers and magic. Gaelin watched in exhaustion as the Sirilmeeters streamed after the retreating enemy, brandishing torches and screaming in rage.

Behind them, dozens of dead and wounded, both Mhorien and Ghoeran, littered the town commons. Gaelin spotted Cuille Dhalsiel lying beside the dead captain. He slid down from Blackbrand’s back and ran forward, dropping to his knees beside the dying Mhorien. “Cuille! Are you – ”

Cuille looked up at him, his face pale and drawn. “Should have known a Ghoeran was going to stab me in the back, sooner or later,” he said. He gazed up past Gaelin. “I’m sorry… didn’t know it would be like this.”

“It’s not my place to forgive you, Cuille. Make your own peace with what you’ve done.”

“I told you, Gaelin… I’m damned as a traitor.”

“But you’re not dying as one,” Gaelin replied. Cuille smiled weakly in response, and then his eyes fixed on the dark skies overhead. Gaelin closed them, and stood, ignoring the tears that streaked his face. Regardless of what he might have done, Cuille had been his friend.

Ilwyn stumbled past him and knelt beside Cuille, cradling his head in her arms. She sagged back, numb with grief. “Ah, Cuille,” she said. She closed her eyes and sobbed. Quietly, Gaelin raised her up and led her away. Already, the folk of Sirilmeet were tending to their dead and wounded, but in the midst of their grief there was also a fierce pride in their victory.

The villagers had finally struck back.

That night, Gaelin and his party stayed beneath Master Piere’s roof again. After the fight, no one slept well. Gaelin found himself staring at the darkness for hours. How many men was he leading into death? How many men like Piere and Bull would never return from the campaign? He knew it was pointless to brood over these questions, but he couldn’t help it. Eventually he drifted off into a restless slumber.

In the gray hour before dawn, he rose and dressed himself, and awakened the others.

“Where will you go next, m’lord Mhor?” asked Piere. “Will you try to raise the southlands, too? From what I hear, they’re ready to fight.”

“There’s no time,” Gaelin said. “As it is, the muster of Sirilmeet will be hard-pressed to reach Lake Winoene in time. If I rode another half-day, the men I reached wouldn’t be able to make it to the fight.”

“Four days to Lake Winoene? Bah! We’ll be there in three,”

Piere boasted. But he didn’t argue the point that anyone further away would not be able to join the levy of Mhoried. “Will you return to Caer Winoene, then?”

Gaelin nodded. “I’ve one more stop first, and then I’ll make all speed for the muster. I need to make contact with the Diemans.”

“We have about thirty lads with horses good enough to keep up with you,” Piere offered. “Let me send them on ahead with you, just in case. Five guardsmen just aren’t enough to stand between you and danger, should you meet a Ghoeran patrol.”

Gaelin thought of declining – larger parties always moved slower than small ones, and he was pressed for time – but acquiesced.

“I’ll be proud to ride with the muster of Sirilmeet, Master Piere. Gather them quickly, though; we need to be on our way.” Within the hour, Gaelin’s small party grew into a band of forty. Most of the militiamen were unarmored, but a number had served as cavalrymen in Mhoried’s army, and they knew how to use the lance and bow from horseback.

While they waited for the Sirilmeeters to gather their gear, Gaelin was surprised by the arrival of Castellan Trebelaen from Castle Dhalsiel. The stocky knight approached and dropped to one knee, removing his helm. “My lord Mhor, I wish to report that the Ghoerans were driven out of Castle Dhalsiel last night. We heard how Count Dhalsiel died, and… we feel the least we can do is offer our swords in your service.”

“Your family is the closest to the Dhalsiels, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked. “You have a claim on the county.”

“My lord, I press no claim now. I don’t feel that I have the right.” Trebelaen looked up, his face working with emotion.

“Dhalsiel’s played a shameful part in this fight so far. I’d like to help make up for that.”

Gaelin looked over at Piere. “Master Piere? Do the folk of Sirilmeet have anything to say about this?”

Piere shrugged. “Mhor Gaelin, Count Dhalsiel’s men were under the orders of their lord, and they offered us no harm.

We just didn’t care for the company Count Cuille kept.”

“Very well, Sir Trebelaen. We need all the help we can get.”

Trebelaen stood and replaced his helmet. “Thank you, my lord Mhor. There are a few more of us who feel the same way.

They wanted me to find out your mind first.”

“How many?” Gaelin asked.

“About six hundred men-at-arms, my lord.” Trebelaen smiled. “With your permission, we’ll set out for Caer Winoene by noon.”

Gaelin blinked. “That’s almost all your strength.”

“Mhoried needs us, my lord. I couldn’t see holding back.”

“Thank you, Lord Trebelaen. We’ll see you at Lake Winoene in a couple of days, then.” Gaelin reached forward and clasped the knight’s arm. “It’s good to have you on our side.”

As the sun rose into the cloud-racked sky, Gaelin and his reinforced company set out again, riding into the wet, gray morning. Gaelin directed Bull to lead them to the abbey, and by midmorning they sighted the Haelynite stronghold across the downs and hills. The stone walls of the monastery bristled beneath the clouds like a knotted gray fist clenched in the hilltop, angry and warlike. Under the grim, glowering walls, Erin brought her horse alongside Gaelin and said, “You intend to ask the prefect for her aid again? She already refused to help you once.”